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A  THOUGHTLESS  YES 


BY 

HELEN  H.  GARDENER 

,/ 

AUTHOR    OF 

"Men,  Women  and  Gods,"    «'  Sex  in  Brain,"    "Pulpit,  Pew  and 

Cradle,"     "Is  This  Your  Son,   My  Lord?"    "Pushed  by 

Unseen  Hands,"  "  Pray  You,  Sir,  Whose  Daughter," 

"An  Unofficial  Patriot,"  and   "  Facts  and 

Fictions  of  Life" 


TENTH  EDITION 


NEW  YORK: 

R.  F.    FENNO  &    COMPANY 

Q  AND   I  I   EAST    I  6tH  STREET 


Copyright  1890 

BY 

HELEN  H.  GARDENER 


Dedication. 


To  the  many  strangers  who,  after  reading  sncb 
of  these  stories  as  have  before  been  printed,  have 
written  me  letters  that  were  thoughtful  or  gay  or 
sad,  I  dedicate  this  volume. 

These  letters  have  come  from  far  and  near ; 
from  rich  and  from  poor ;  from  Christian  and 
from  unbeliever ;  from  a  bishop's  palace  and  from 
behind  prison  walls. 

If  this  collection  of  stories  shall  give  to  my 
friends,  known  and  unknown,  as  much  pleasure 
and  mental  stimulus  as  their  letters  gave  to 
me,  I  shall  be  content. 

HELEN  H.  GARDENER. 


CONTENTS. 


A  Splendid  Judge  of  a  Woman,  . 
The  Lady  of  the  Club, 

Under  Protest 

For  the  Prosecution,   . 

A  Rusty  Link  in  the  Chain, 

The  Boler  House  Mystery, 

The  Time-lock  of  Our  Ancestors, 

Florence  Campbell's  Fate,   . 

My  Patient's  Story, 


PAGE 

9 

31 

57 

77 

99 

117 

155 
177 
211 


PREFACE  TO  THE  EIGHTH  EDITION. 

In  issuing  a  new  edition  of  this  book,  it  has 
been  thought  wise  to  state  that  an  unauthorized 
edition  is  now  on  the  market,  and  it  is  desirable 
that  the  public  shall  know  that  all  copies  of  this 
book  not  bearing  the  imprint  of  the  Common- 
wealth Company  are  sold  against  the  will  and  in 
violation  of  the  rights  of  the  author. 

Since  some  persons  have  been  puzzled  to  make 
the  connection  between  the  title  of  the  book  and 
the  stories  themselves,  and  to  apply  Colonel  Inger- 
soll's  exquisite  autograph  sentiment  more  clearly, 
a  part  of  "An  Open  Letter,"  which  was  written  in 
reply  to  an  editorial  review  of  the  book  when  it 
first  appeared,  is  here  reprinted,  in  the  hope  that  it 
may  remove  the  difficulty  for  all. 

AN  OPEN  LETTER. 

I  have,  this  morning,  read  your  review  of  "A 
Thoughtless  Yes."  I  wish  to  thank  you  for  the 
pleasant  things  said  and  also  to  make  the  connec- 
tion— which  I  am  surprised  to  see  did  not  present 
itself  to  your  mind — between  the  title  and  the  bur- 
den of  the  stories  or  sketches. 

It  is  not  so  easy  as  you  may  suppose  to  get  a 


ii  Preface  to  the  Eighth  Edition. 

title  which  shall  be  exactly  and  fully  descriptive  of 
a  collection  of  tales  or  sketches,  each  one  of  which 
was  written  to  suggest  thoughts  and  questions  on 
some  particular  topic  or  topics  to  which  people 
usually  pay  the  tribute  of  a  thoughtless  yes.  With 
one — possibly  two — exceptions  each  sketch  means 
to  suggest  to  the  reader  that  there  may  be  a  very 
large  question  mark  put  after  many  of  the  social, 
religious,  economic,  medical,  journalistic,  or  legal 
fiats  of  the  present  civilization. 

You  say  that  "in   'The  Lady  of  the  Club '  she 
[meaning  me]  does  not  show  how  poverty  results 
from  a  thoughtless  yes.     Perhaps  she  does  not  see 
that  it  does. ' '     I  had  in  my  mind  exactly  that  point 
when  I  wrote  the  story  and  when  I  decided  upon 
the  title  for  the  book.     No,  I  do  not  attempt  in  such 
sketches  to  show  how,  but  to  show  that,  such  and 
such  conditions  exist  and  that  it  is  wrong.     I  want 
to  suggest  a  question  of  the  justice  and  the  right  of 
several  things;  but  I  want  to  leave  each  person  free 
to  think  out,    not  my  conclusion  or  remedy,    but 
a  conclusion  and  a  remedy,  and  at  all  events  to 
make  him  refuse,  henceforth,  the  thougthless  yes 
of  timid  acquiescence  to  things  as  they  are  simply 
because  they  are.     In  the  "Lady  of  the  Club"  I 
meant  to  attack  the  impudent  authority  that  makes 
such  a  condition  of  poverty  possible,   by  calling 
sympathetic  attention  to  its  workings.     There  are 
one  or  two  other  ideas  sustained  by  authority,  to 
which,  to  the  readers  of  that  tale,  I  wished  to  make 


Preface  to  the  Eighth  Edition.  iii 

a  thoughtless  yes  henceforth  impossible.  At  least 
I  hoped  to  arouse  a  question.  One  is  taxation  of 
church  property.  I  wished  to  point  out  that  by 
shirking  their  honest  debts  churches  heap  still  far- 
ther poverty  and  burden  upon  the  poor.  I  hoped, 
too,  to  suggest  that  the  idea  of  "charity,"  to  which 
most  people  give  a  warmly  thoughtless  yes,  must 
be  an  indignity  or  impossibility  where,  even  they 
would  say,  it  was  most  needed.  I  wanted  to  call 
attention  to  the  fact  that  a  physician  and  a  man  of 
tender  heart  and  lofty  soul  were  compelled  to  make 
themselves  criminals,  before  the  law,  to  even  be 
kind  to  the  dead.  That  conditions  are  so  savage 
under  the  present  system  that  such  a  case  is  abso- 
lutely hopeless  while  the  victims  live  and  outrage- 
ous after  they  are  dead.  To  all  of  these  dictates 
of  impudent  authority,  to  which  most  story  readers 
pay  the  tribute  of  a  thoughtless  yes,  I  wanted  to 
call  attention  in  such  a  way  that  henceforth  a 
question  must  arise  in  their  minds.  I  hoped  to 
show,  too,  that  even  so  lofty  a  character  as  Roland 
Barker  was  tied  hand  and  foot — until  it  made  him 
almost  a  madman — by  a  system  of  economics  and 
religion  and  law  which  so  interlace  as  to  sustain 
each  other  and  combine  to  not  only  crush  the  poor 
but  to  prevent  the  rich  from  helping  along  even 
where  they  desire  to  do  so. 

These  were  the  main  points  upon  which  that 
particular  tale  was  intended  to  arouse  a  mental  at- 
titude of  thoughtful  protest    There  are  other,  minor 


iv  Preface  to  the  Eighth  Edition. 

ones,  which  I  need  not  trouble  you  to  recall.  If 
you  will  notice,  nearly  all  of  the  tales  end  (or  stop 
without  an  end)  with  an  open  question  for  the 
reader  to  settle — to  settle  his  way,  not  mine.  In- 
deed, I  am  not  yet  convinced  that  my  own  ideas 
of  the  changes  needed  and  the  way  to  bring  them 
about  are  infallible.  I  am  still  open  to  conviction. 
I  have  tried  to  grasp  the  Socialist,  Communist,  An- 
archist, Single-tax,  Free-land,  and  other  ideas  and 
to  comprehend  just  what  each  could  be  fairly  ex- 
pected to  accomplish  if  established — to  see  the  pros 
and  cons  of  these  and  other  schemes  for  social  im- 
provement. 

These,  and  the  varying  cults  ranged  between, 
each  seems  to  me  to  have  certain  strong  points  and 
certain  weak  ones.  Each  seems  to  me  to  overlook 
some  essential  feature;  and  yet  I  have  no  system 
to  offer  that  I  think  would  be  better  or  would  work 
better  than  some  of  these.  Indeed,  I  do  most  earn- 
estly believe  that  the  inspired  way  is  yet  to  be  struck 
out,  and  I  do  not  believe  that  I  am  the  one  to  do  it. 
Meanwhile  I  can  do  some  things.  I  can  suggest 
questions,  and,  sometimes,  answers.  But  I  am 
not  a  god,  and  I  do  not  want  all  people  to  answer 
my  way.  I  do  want  to  help  prevent,  now  and 
henceforth,  the  tribute  of  a  thoughtless  yes  from 
being  given  to  a  good  many  established  wrongs. 

Since  such  able  thinkers  as  you  are  have — in 
the  main — already  refused  such  tribute,  I  am  per- 
fectly satisfied  to   let   each  of  these  answer  the 


Preface  to  the  Eighth  Edition.  v 

questions  I  have  suggested  or  may  suggest  in  my 
fiction  in  the  way  that  seems  most  hopeful  to  him. 
Meantime,  the  vast  majority  of  story  readers 
have  not  yet  had  their  emotions  touched  by  the 
dramatic  presentation  of  "the  other  side."  Fic- 
tion has — in  the  main — worked  to  make  them  ac- 
cept without  question  all  things  as  authority  has 
presented  them.  Who  knows  but  that  a  lofty  dis- 
content may  be  stirred  in  some  soul  who  can  solve 
the  awful  problems  and  at  the  same  time  reconcile 
the  various  cults  of  warring  philosophers  so  that 
they  may  combine  for  humanity  and  cease  to  di- 
vide for  revenue — or  personal  pique  ?  I  do  not  be- 
lieve that  the  province  of  a  story  is  to  assume  to 
give  the  solution  of  philosophical  questions  that 
have  puzzled  and  proved  too  much  for  the  best  and 
ablest  brains.  I  have  no  doubt  that  fiction  may 
stir  and  arouse  to  thought  many  who  cannot  un- 
derstand and  will  not  heed  essays  or  argument  or 
preaching,  while  it  may  also  present  the  same 
thoughts  in  a  new  light  to  those  who  do.  Person- 
ally I  do  not  believe  in  tacking  on  to  fiction  a 
"moral"  or  an  "in  conclusion"  which  shall 
switch  all  such  aroused  thoughts  into  one  channel. 
Clear  thinking  and  right  feeling  may  lead  some 
one,  who  is  new  to  such  protest,  to  solutions  that 
I  have  not  reached.  So  let  us  each  question  "im- 
pudent authority,"  whether  it  be  in  its  stupid  blind- 
ness to  heredity  or  to  environment;  and  I  shall  be 
content  that  you  solve  the  new  order  by  an  appeal 


vi  Preface  to  the  Eighth  Edition. 

to  Anarchism  via  free  land;  or  that  Matilda  Joslyn 
Gage  solve  it  by  the  ballot  for  women  and  heredi- 
tary freedom  from  slavish  instincts  stamped  upon 
a  race  born  of  superstitious  and  subject  mothers. 

Personally  I  do  not  believe  that  all  the  free  land, 
free  money  or  freedom  in  the  world,  which  shall 
leave  the  mothers  of  the  race  (whether  in  or  out  of 
marriage)  a  subject  class  or  in  a  position  to  trans- 
mit to  their  children  the  vices  or  weaknesses  of  a 
dominated  dependent,  will  ever  succeed  in  popu- 
lating the  world  with  self-reliant,  self-respecting, 
honorable  and  capable  people. 

On  the  other  hand,  I  do  not  see  how  the  ballot 
in  the  hands  of  woman  will  do  for  her  all  that  many 
believe  it  will.  That  it  is  her  right  and  would  go 
far  is  clear;  but  after  that,  your  question  of  eco- 
nomics touches  her  in  a  way  that  it  does  not  and 
cannot  touch  men,  and  T  am  free  to  confess  that 
as  yet  I  have  heard  of  no  economic  or  social  plan 
that  would  not  of  necessity,  in  my  opinion,  bear 
heaviest  upon  those  who  are  mothers.  So  you 
will  see  that  when  I  suggested  the  desirablity  in 
"For  the  Prosecution"  of  having  mothers  on  the 
bench  and  as  jurors  where  a  case  touched  points 
no  man  living  does  or  can  understand  in  all  its 
phases,  I  do  not  think  that  would  right  all  the 
wrong  nor  solve  all  the  questions  suggested  by 
such  a  trial;  but  I  thought  it  would  help  push  the 
car  of  right  and  justice  in  the  direction  of  light 
which  we  all  hope  is  ahead. 


Preface  to  the  Eighth  Edition.  vii 

You  believe  more  in  environment  than  in  hered- 
ity; I  believe  in  both,  and  that  both  are  sadly  and 
awfully  awry,  largely  because  too  many  people 
in  too  many  ways  pay  to  impudent  authority  the 
tribute  of  a  thoughtless  yes. 

It  is  one  of  the  saddest  things  in  this  world  to 
see  the  brave  and  earnest  men  who  fight  so  nobly 
for  better  and  fairer  economic  conditions  for 
"Labor,"  pay,  much  too  often,  the  tribute  of  a 
thoughtless  yes  to  the  absolute  pauper  status  of  all 
womanhood.  They  resent  with  spirit  the  idea 
that  men  should  labor  for  a  mere  subsistence  and 
always  be  dependent  upon  and  at  the  financial 
mercy  of  the  rich.  They  do  not  appear  to  see  that 
to  one-half  of  the  race  even  that  much  economic 
independence  would  be  a  tremendous  improve- 
ment upon  her  present  status.  How  would  Single- 
tax  or  Free-land  help  this  ?  You  may  reply  that 
Anarchism  would  solve  that  problem.  Would  it  ? 
With  maternity  and  physical  disabilities  in  the  scale? 
To  my  mind,  all  the  various  economic  schemes  yet 
put  forward  lack  an  essential  feature.  They  pro- 
vide for  a  free  and  better  manhood,  but  they  pay 
the  tribute  of  a  thoughtless  yes  to  impudent  au- 
thority in  the  case  of  womanhood,  in  many  things. 
And  so  long  as  motherhood  is  serfhood,  just  so 
long  will  this  world  be  populated  with  a  race  easy 
to  subjugate,  weak  to  resist  oppression,  criminal 
in  its  instincts  of  cruelty  toward  those  in  its  power, 
and  humble  and  subservient  toward  authority  and 


viii  Preface  to  the  Eighth  Edition. 

domination.  Character  rises  but  little  above  its 
source.  The  mother  molds  the  man.  If  she 
have  the  status,  the  instincts,  and  the  spirit  of  a 
subordinate,  she  will  transmit  these,  and  the  more 
enlightened  she  is  the  surer  is  this,  because  of  her 
consciousness  of  her  own  degradation. 

Look  at  the  Kemmler  horror.  People  all  marvel 
at  his  "brutish  nature  and  his  desire  to  kill."  No 
one  says  anything  about  the  fact,  which  was 
merely  mentioned  at  his  trial,  that  his  "father  was 
a  butcher  and  his  mother  helped  in  the  business." 
Did  you  know  that  this  is  also  true  of  Jesse  Pome- 
roy;  the  boy  who  "from  infancy  tortured  animals 
and  killed  whatever  he  could?" 

Would  all  this  sort  of  thing  mean  absolutely 
nothing  to  women  of  the  same  social  and  scientific 
status  enjoyed  by  the  men  who  assisted  at  the 
trials  of  these  two  and  at  the  legal  murder  of  one? 
In  ordinary  women,  of  course,  it  would  not  stir 
very  deep  thought.  But  these  were  not  ordinary 
men.  They  were  far  more  than  that  Almost  all 
the  women  who  have  spoken  or  written  to  me  of 
the  Kemmler  horrer  have  touched  that  thought. 
Have  you  heard  a  man  discuss  it?  Is  there  area- 
son  for  this  ?  Do  we  pay  the  tribute  of  a  thought- 
less yes  to  all  that  clusters  about  the  present  ideas 
on  such  subjects  and  about  their  criminal  medico- 
legal aspects?  But  this  letter  grows  too  long. 
With  great  respect  and  hearty  good  wishes,  I  am 
sincerely,  Helen  H.  Gardener. 


H  Splenoio  Suoge  of  a  Momam 


"  We  look  at  the  one  little  woman's  face  we  love,  as  we  look  at 
the  face  of  our  mother  earth,  and  see  all  sorts  of  answers  to 
our  own  yearnings" — GEORGE  ELIOT. 


A  SPLENDID  JUDGE  OF  A  WOMAN. 


"  But  after  all  it  is  not  fair  to  blame  her  as  you 
do,  Cuthbert.  She  is  what  she  must  be.  It  is  not 
at  all  strange.     Midge — " 

"  I  am  quite  out  of  patience  with  you,  Nora  ;  " 
exclaimed  Cuthbert  Wagner,  vehemently.  "  How 
can  you  excuse  her  ?  Midge,  as  you  call  her,  has 
been  no  friend  to  you.  She  was  deceitful  and  de- 
signing all  along.  She  even  tried  in  every  way  she 
could  think  of  to  undermine  you  in  my  affections  !" 
He  tossed  his  head  contemptuously  and  strode  to 
the  window  where  he  stood  glaring  out  into  the 
moonlight  in  fierce  and  indignant  protest.  His  wife 
had  so  often  spoken  well  of  Margaret  Mintern. 
She  did  not  appear  to  hold  the  least  resentment  to- 
ward the  school-friend  of  her  past  years,  while 
Cuthbert  could  see  nothing  whatever  that  was  good 
or  deserving  of  praise  in  the  character  of  the  young 
lady  in  question.  He  was  bitterly  resentful  because 
Margaret  Mintern  had  spoken  ill  of  his  wife  while 
she  was  only  his  betrothed,  and  Cuthbert  Wagner 
did  not  forgive  easily. 

Nora  crossed  the  room  with  her  swift,  graceful 
tread,  and  the  sweep  of   her   lace  gown   over  the 

ii 


12  A  Splendid  Judge  of  a  Woman. 

thick  rug  had  not  reached  her  husband's  ear  as  he 
stood  thumping  on  the  window  pane.  He  started 
a  little,  therefore,  when  a  soft  hand  was  laid  upon 
his  arm  and  a  softer  face  pressed  itself  close  to  his 
shoulder. 

"  It  is  very  sweet  of  you,  dear,"  she  said  in  her 
low,  gentle  voice,  "  It  is  very  sweet  of  you  to  feel  so 
keenly  any  thrust  made  at  me ;  but  darling,  you  are 
unfair  to  Midge,  poor  girl!  My  heart  used  often 
to  bleed  for  her.  It  must  be  terribly  hard  for  her 
to  fight  her  own  nature,  as  she  does, — as  she  must, 
— and  lose  the  battle  so  often  after  all." 

"Fight  fiddle-sticks!"  said  Cuthbert,  and  then 
went  on  grumbling  in  inarticulate  sounds,  at  which 
his  wife  laughed  out  merrily. 

"Oh,  boo,  boo,  boo,"  she  said,  pretending  to 
imitate  his  unuttered  words. 

"  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it.  /  know  Margaret 
Mintern.  Did  I  not  room  with  her  for  three  long 
years  ?  And  do  I  not  know  that  she  is  a  good  girl, 
and  a  very  noble  one,  too,  in  spite  of  her  little 
weakness  of  envy  or  jealousy? 

She  can't  help  that.  I  am  sure  she  must  be 
terribly  humiliated  by  it.  Indeed,  indeed,  dear,  I 
know  that  she  is  ;  but  she  cannot  master  it.  It  is 
a  part  of#her.  I  do  not  know  whether  she  was  born 
with  it  or  not ;  but  I  do  know  that  all  of  her  life 
since  she  was  a  very  little  girl  she  has  been  so  situ- 
ated that  just  that  particular  defect  in  her  char- 
acter is  the  inevitable  result.  Don't  you  believe, 
Cuthbert,  that  all  such  things  are  natural  produc- 


A  Splendid  Judge  of  a  Woman,.  13 

tions  ?  Why,  dearie,  it  seems  to  me  that  you  might 
as  reasonably  feel  angry  with  me  because  my  hair 
is  brown  as  toward  Midge  because  her  envy  some- 
times overbears  her  better  qualities.  The  real  fault 
lies—" 

"O  Nora,  suppose  you  take  the  stump!  Lecture 
on  'Whatever  is  is  right,'  and  have  done  with  it." 

"Aha,  my  dear,"  laughed  his  wife,  "I  have 
caught  you  napping  again.  I  do  not  say  that  it  is 
right  ;  but  I  do  say  that  it  is  natural  for  Margaret 
to  be  just  what  she  is.  That  is  just  the  point 
people  always  overlook,  it  seems  to  me.  Nature 
is  wrong  about  half  of  the  time — even  inanimate 
nature.  Just  look  over  there!  See  those  splendid 
mountains  and  the  lovely  little  valley  all  touched 
with  moonlight  ;  but,  oh,  how  the  eye  longs  for 
water!  A  lake,  a  splendid  river,  the  ocean  in  the 
distance — something  that  is  water — anything  that 
is  water  !  But  no,  it  is  valley  and  mountain  and 
mountain  and  valley,  until  the  most  beautiful 
spot  in  the  world,  when  first  you  see  it,  grows 
hateful  and  tiresome  and  lacking  in  the  most  im- 
portant feature." 

Cuthbert  laughed.  "  A  lake  would  look  well  just 
over  there  by  McGuire's  barn,  now,  wouldn't  it  ? 
And,  come  to  think  of  it,  how  a  few  mountains 
would  improve  things  over  at  Newport  or  Long 
Beach."  He  stopped  to  thump  a  bug  from  his 
wife's  shoulder. 

"  How  pretty  you  look  in  that  black  lace,  little 
woman.     I   don't  believe  nature  needed   any  im- 


14  A  Splendid  Judge  of  a  Woman. 

prover  once  in  her  life  anyhow — when  she  made 
you." 

Nora  smiled.  A  pleased,  gratified  little  dimple 
made  itself  visible  at  one  corner  of  her  mouth. 
Her  husband  stooped  over  and  kissed  it  lightly, 
just  as  the  portiere  was  drawn  aside  and  a  guest 
announced  by  James,  the  immaculate  butler. 

"We've  just  been  having  a  quarrel,  Bailey,"  said 
Mr.  Wagner,  as  he  advanced  to  greet  the  visitor, 
"and  now  I  mean  to  leave  it  to  you  if — " 

"Yes,"  drawled  Mr.  Bailey,  "I  noticed  that  as  I 
came  in.  You  were  just  punctuating  your  quarrel 
as  James  drew  back  the  portiere.  That  is  the  reason 
I  coughed  so  violently  as  I  stepped  inside.  Don't 
be  alarmed  about  my  health.  It  isn't  consumption. 
It  is  only  assumption,  I  do  assure  you.  I  assumed 
that  you  assumed  that  you  were  alone — that  there 
wasn't  an  interested  spectator  ;  but,  great  Scott! 
Bert,  I  don't  blame  you,  so  don't  apologize  ;  "  and 
with  a  low  bow  of  admiration  to  his  friend's  wife, 
he  joined  in  the  laugh. 

"  But  what  was  the  row  ?  I'm  consumed  to  hear 
it,"  he  added,  as  they  were  seated.  "  I  should  be 
charmed  to  umpire  the  matter — so  long  as  it  ended 
that  way.  Now,  go  on  ;  but  I  want  to  give  you 
fair  warning,  old  man,  that  I  am  on  Mrs.  Wag- 
ner's side  to  start  with,  so  you  fire  off  your  biggest 
guns  and  don't  attempt  to  roll  any  twisted 
balls." 

"  Curved  balls,"  laughed  Nora,  "not  twisted;  and 
it  seems  to  me   you  mixed  your   games  just  a  wee 


A  Splendid  Judge  of  a  Woman.  15 

bit.  There  isn't  any  game  with  guns  and  balls 
both,  is  there?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  yes  indeed,"  replied  Mr.  Bailey, 
promptly.  "  The  old,  old  game  in  which  there  is 
brought  to  bear  a  battery  of  eyes." 

"  Oh,  don't,"  said  Cuthbert.  "  I  am  not  equal  to 
it!  But  after  all,  I  can't  see  that  you  are  well  out 
of  this,  Ned.     Where  do  the  balls  come  in  ?" 

"  What  have  you  against  eyeballs  that  roll  in  a 
fine  frenzy  when  a  battery  of  handsome  eyes  is 
trained  upon  a  bashful  fellow  like  me  ?"  he  asked 
quite  gravely,  and  then  all  three  laughed  and  Cuth- 
bert pretended  to  faint. 

"  I  shall  really  have  to  protest,  myself,  if  you  go 
any  farther,  Mr.  Bailey,"  said  Nora. 

"  You  are  getting  into  deep  water,  and  if  you  are 
to  be  on  my  side  in  the  coming  contest,  I  want  you 
to  have  a  cool  head  and — " 

"  A  clean  heart ;  "  put  in  Cuthbert. 

"  Mrs.  Wagner  never  asks  for  impossibilities,  I 
am  sure,"  said  Mr.  Bailey,  dryly. 

"  But  she  does.  That  is  just  it.  She  wants  to 
make  me  believe  that  a  girl  who  traduced  her  and 
acted  like  a  little  fiend  generally,  is  an  adorable 
creature — a  natural  production  which  couldn't  help 
itself — had  to  behave  that  way.     We — " 

"  I  believe  I  started  in  by  saying  that  I  should 
be  on  your  side,  Mrs.  Wagner,"  said  their  guest, 
assuming  a  judicial  attitude  and  bracing  himself  be- 
hind an  imaginary  pile  of  accumulated  evidence, 
"  but    I'm  beginning   to  wobble  already.     If    Bert 


1 6  A  Splendid  Judge  of  a  Woman. 

makes  another  home  run  like  that,  I  warn  you, 
madam,  that  while  I  shall  endeavor  to  be  a  fair  and 
impartial  judge,  I  shall  decide  against  you. 

Nora's  eyes  had  a  twinkle  in  their  depths  for  an 
instant,  but  her  face  had  grown  grave. 

"Wait.  Let  me  tell  you,"  she  said.  "Even 
Cuthbert  does  not  know  just  how  it  was — what 
went  to  make  my  old  school-friend's  character 
precisely  what  it  became.  It  was  like  this:  When 
she  was  a  very  little  girl  her  father  died,  and  the  poor 
little  mother  went  back  home  with  her  four  young 
children,  and  her  crushed  pride,  to  bean  additional 
burden  to  the  already  overburdened  father,  who  was 
growing  old  and  who  had  small  children  of  his  own 
still  to  educate  and  pilot  through  society. 

He  had  lost  his  hold  on  business  when  he  went 
into  the  army  ;  and  although  he  came  home  a  gen- 
eral, quite  covered  with  glory,  a  large  family  cannot 
live  on  glory,  you  know,  and  fame  will  not  buy 
party  dresses  for  three  daughters  and  a  grandchild." 

"  I've  noticed  that,"  remarked  Mr.  Bailey,  dryly. 

"  The  added  importance  of  his  position  and  the 
consequent  publicity  made  the  handsome  party 
gowns  all  the  more  necessary,  however,"  said  Nora, 
not  heeding  the  interruption,  "  and  so  the  family 
had  to  do  a  great  many  things  that  were  not  pleasant 
to  make  even  one  end  meet,  as  poor  Midge  used  to 
say. 

The  General  loved  brains  and  his  granddaughter 
was  very  bright." 

Cuthbert    gave    a   low  whistle.     He    would    not 


A  Splendid  Judge  of  a  Woman.  1 7 

compromise.  If  he  found  one  thing  wrong  in  an 
acquaintance  all  things  were  wrong.  It  followed, 
therefore,  in  his  mind,  that  since  Margaret  Min- 
tern  had  been  guilty  of  envy,  she  was  altogether 
unlikely  to  possess  fine  mental  capabilities.  He 
would  not  even  allow  that  she  was  stylish  and  sang 
well. 

His  wife  took  no  notice  of  his  outburst,  but  her 
color  deepened  a  little  as  she  went  on. 

"  She  was  the  most  clever  girl  mentally  that  I 
have  ever  known  and  she  was  a  vast  deal  of  service 
to  me  in  the  years  we  were  together.  She  sharpened 
my  wits  and  stimulated  my  thoughts  in  a  thousand 
ways,  for  which  I  am  her  debtor  still.  But  I  am 
getting  ahead  of  my  story.  As  I  say,  the  old  Gen- 
eral worshipped  brains,  but  he  also  adored  beauty  ; 
and,  alas,  his  granddaughter  was  quite  plain — " 

"  Ugly  as  a  hedge-fence,  and  I  never  could  see 
that  she  was  so  superhumanly  brilliant  or  stylish, 
as  you  claim,  either,"  put  in  Cuthbert  Wagner,  as  he 
leaned  back  in  his  deep  chair  with  his  eyes  drawn 
to  a  narrow  line. 

"  She  was  almost  exactly  the  same  age  of  her 
Aunt  Julia,  the  General's  youngest  daughter  ;  but 
Julia  was  a  dream  of  beauty  and  of  stupidity." 

"  Situation  is  now  quite  plain,"  said  Mr.  Bailey. 
"  The  lovely  Julie  got  there.  She  always  does, 
and—" 

"  Ah,  but  you  must  remember  that  in  this  case 
'  there  '  was  the  heart  of  the  father  of  one  and  the 
grandfather  of  the  other,"  said  Nora,  smiling. 


1 8  A  Splendid  Judge  of  a  Woman. 

Her  husband  laughed  outright  and  faced  Mr. 
Bailey. 

"  I  rather  think  she  has  got  you  now,  old  man. 
In  a  case  like  that  I'm  hanged  if  I  know  how  it 
would  turn  out — who  would  get  there.  The  ele- 
ments won't  mix.     It  is  not  the  usual  thing. 

"  The  beautiful  stupid  and  the  brilliant  but  plain 
are  all  right, — regular  stage  properties,  so  to  speak, — 
but  the  grandfather!  I'll  wager  if  we  tossed  up 
for  it,  and  you  got  heads  and  I  got  tails  we'd  both 
be  wrong. 

"  There  is  something  actually  uncanny  in  the  aged 
grandparent  ingredient  in  a  conundrum  like  that. 
Now  if  it  were  a  young  fellow, — only  the  average 
donkey, — why  of  course  the  lovely  Julia  would 
bear  off  the  palm  and  leave  Midge,  as  Nora  calls 
her,  to  pine  away.  But  if  it  were  a  level-headed, 
middle-aged  chap  like  me,  brains  would  take  pre- 
cedence." He  waved  his  hand  lightly  toward  his 
wife,  who  parted  her  lips  over  a  set  of  little  white 
teeth  and  a  radiant  smile  burst  forth. 

"  You  are  a  bold  hypocrite,  Bert,"  said  Mr.  Bailey. 
"  You  did  not  have  to  make  any  such  choice,  and 
you  are  not  entitled  to  the  least  credit  in  the  prem- 
ises.    You  got  both." 

"  This  is  really  quite  overwhelming,"  laughed 
Nora;  "but—" 

"  Why  on  earth  did  you  call  her  attention  to  it, 
Ned,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Wagner,  with  great  pretence 
of  annoyance.  "  She  would  have  swallowed  it 
whole.     I  wonder  why  it  is  a  woman  so  loves  to  be 


A  Splendid  Judge  of  a  Woman.  19 

told  that  you  married  her  for  her  intellect,  when  in 
nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  cases  out  of  eight 
hundred  and  forty  you  did  nothing  of  the  kind,  and 
she  knows  it  perfectly  well.  You  married  her  be- 
cause you  loved  her,  brains  or  no  brains,  beauty  or 
no  beauty,  and  that's  an  end  of  it.  Isn't  that  so, 
Ned  ?" 

"  Well,  I'm  not  prepared  to  say,  yet.  I  am 
umpire.  I  have  not  made  up  my  mind  which  I 
shall  marry — the  lovely  Julia,  or  the  brilliant  niece; 
but  I  think  I  shall  in  the  long  run." 

"  God  help  you  if  you  do!"  said  Cuthbert,  dra- 
matically. "  I  don't  know  Julia,  the  beautiful; 
but  I'd  hate  to  see  you  married  to  a  cat  with  uncut 
claws,  Ned,  much  as  I  think  you  need  dressing 
down  from  time  to  time." 

"  Mrs.  Wagner,"  said  Mr.  Bailey,  turning  to  her, 
gravely,  "  I'm  not  paying  the  least  attention  to 
him,  and  I  am  eager  to  hear  how  the  grandfather 
got  out  of  it." 

"The  grandfather!"  exclaimed  Nora,  "why  I 
had  no  idea  of  telling  his  story.  It  was  the  two 
girls  I  was  interested  in — or  at  least,  in  one  of 
them;  but  that  is  just  like  a  man.     He — " 

She  allowed  her  feather  fan  to  fall  in  her  lap 
and  looked  up  helplessly.  "  But  come  to  think  of 
the  other  side,  his  story  would  be  worth  telling, 
wouldn't  it  ?  It  must  have  been  a  rather  trying 
situation  for  him,  too." 

She  took  the  fan  up  again,  and  waved  it  before 
her,  thoughtfully.     "  I  wonder  why  I  never  thought 


20  A  Splendid  Judge  of  a  Woman. 

of  that  before.  I  have  always  rather  blamed  him 
for  developing  his  granddaughter's  one  sad  defect. 
I  thought  he  should  have  guarded  her  against  it. 
And — I  do  wonder  if  it  is  because  I  am  a  woman 
that  I  never  before  thought  how  very  difficult  it 
must  have  been  for  him  ?" 

"  No  doubt,  no  doubt,"  said  her  husband,  dryly. 
"  But  now  that  we  have  shed  a  few  tears  over  our 
mental  shortcomings  and  lack  of  breadth  of  sym- 
pathy in  overlooking  the  sad  predicament  of  the 
doughty  General,  proceed.  The  umpire  sleepeth 
apace,  and  I've  got  to  have  my  shy  at  the 
charming  Midge  before  weVe  done  with  her," 
and  he  shut  his  paper-knife  with  a  wicked  little 
click. 

"You  can  see  how  it  would  be,"  Nora  began 
again,  quite  gravely,  and  the  gentlemen  both  smiled. 
"  You  can  see  how  it  would  be.  The  grand- 
daughter was  made  to  feel  that  she  was  in  the  way 
— was  a  burden.  Her  mother  would  urge  her  to 
become  indispensable  to  the  old  General.  To  read 
to  him,  talk  brightly  to  him,  sing  and  play  for  him, 
watch  his  moods  and  meet  them  cleverly.  It  was 
all  done  as  a  race  for  his  affections.  Julia  raced 
with  her,  setting  her  beauty  and  the  other  great 
fact  that  she  was  the  child  of  his  old  age  over 
against  the  entertaining  qualities  of  her  rival." 

Mr.  Bailey  drew  his  handkerchief  across  his  brow 
and  looked  helplessly  perplexed,  while  Cuthbert 
responded  with  a  dreary  shake  of  the  head. 

"  It  is  a  clear  case  of  '  The  Lady  or  the  Tiger,' 


A  Splendid  Judge  of  a  Woman.  21 

yet,  so  far  as  I  can  see,"  said  he.  "  Who  got  there, 
Bailey?" 

Mr.  Bailey  smiled  despairingly,  and  shook  his 
head,  but  said  nothing. 

"  It  went  on  like  that  day  after  day,  week  after 
week,  month  after  month,  year  after  year,"  con- 
tinued Nora,  looking  steadily  in  front  of  her  and 
shivering  a  little,  "  until  they  were  both  young 
ladies.  The  General  gave  a  party  to  present  them 
both  to  society  at  the  same  time.  His  grand- 
daughter tried  to  make  him  feel  that  he  was  repaid 
for  the  expense  and  trouble  by  the  display  of  her 
exceptional  powers  as  a  conversationalist — Julia, 
by  the  display  of  her  neck  and  shoulders,  her  ex- 
quisite rose-leaf  face,  and  her  childishly  pretty 
manners.  This  sort  of  rivalry  would  have  been 
well  enough,  no  doubt,  if  it  had  not  been  for  the 
fact  that  from  childhood  up  to  this  culmination 
there  had  been  a  dash  of  bitterness  in  it,  an  un- 
der-current of  antagonism;  and  poor  Midge  had 
always  been  the  main  sufferer,  because  she  was 
very  sensitive  and  she  was  made  to  feel  that  all 
she  received  was  taken  from  her  aunt  Julia. 

To  stand  first  with  her  father,  Julia  would  do 
almost  anything;  and  the  ingenuity  with  which  she 
devised  cruel  little  stabs  at  Midge  was  simply 
phenomenal.  To  be  absolutely  necessary  to  him 
became  almost  a  mania  with  his  granddaughter." 

"  If  this  thing  goes  on  much  longer,  I  am  going 
to  have  a  fit,"  Cuthbert  announced,  placidly. 

"  The  girl  you  judge  so  harshly,  poor  child,  had 


22  A  Splendid  Judge  of  a  Woman. 

a  great  many  of  them,"  said  Nora,  with  an  inflec- 
tion in  her  voice  that  checked  a  laugh  on  Mr. 
Bailey's  lips.  "  Fits  of  depression,  fits  of  anger,  fits 
of  sorrow,  fits  of  shame  and  of  indignation  with  her- 
self and  with  others.  For  there  were  times  when 
she  stooped  to  little  meannesses  which  her  sensitive 
soul  abhorred.  If  intense  effort  resulted,  after  all, 
in  failure,  envy  of  her  successful  rival  grew  up  in 
her  heart;  and,  sometimes,  if  it  were  carefully  cul- 
tivated by  the  pruning  hook  of  sarcasm  or  an  un- 
kind look  of  triumph,  she  would  say  or  do  a  mean 
or  underhand  thing,  and  then  regret  it  passionately 
when  it  was  too  late." 

Cuthbert  gave  a  grunt  of  utter  incredulity. 

"  Regretted  it  so  little  she'd  do  it  again  next 
day,"  he  grumbled.     Nora  went  steadily  on. 

"  It  grew  to  be  the  one  spring  and  impulse  of 
her  whole  nature — the  necessity  of  her  existence — 
to  stand  first  with  the  ruling  spirit  wherever  she 
was,  whoever  it  might  be.  At  school  I  have 
known  her  to  sit  up  all  night  to  make  sure  that 
she  would  be  letter-perfect  in  her  lessons  the  fol- 
lowing morning.  Not  because  she  cared  for  her 
studies  so  much  as  because  she  must  feel  that  she 
stood  first  in  the  estimation  of  her  teachers.  And 
then,  too,  her  grandfather  would  know  and  be  proud 
of  her.  It  got  to  be  nature  with  her  (I  do  not  know 
how  much  of  the  tendency  may  have  been  born  in 
her)  to  need  to  stand  on  the  top  wherever  she  was. 
(It  has  always  seemed  to  me  that  the  conditions  sur- 
rounding her  were  quite  enough  to  explain  this  char- 


A  Splendid  Judge  of  a  Woman.  23 

acteristic  without  an  appeal  to  a  possible  heredity 
of  which  I  can  know  nothing.)  Even  where  we 
boarded,  although  she  disliked  the  women  and 
looked  down  upon  the  young  men,  she  made  them 
all  like  her,  and  even  went  the  length  of  allowing 
one  young  fellow  to  ask  her  to  marry  him  simply 
because  she  saw  that  he  was  interested  in  me." 

"  Humph!  She—"  began  Cuthbert,  but  his  wife 
held  up  her  hand  to  check  him,  and  did  not  pause 
in  her  story. 

"  Up  to  that  time  she  had  not  given  him  a  thought, 
and  she  was  very  angry  when  he  finally  asked  the 
great  question.  She  thought  that  he  should  have 
known  that  such  a  girl  as  she  was  could  not  be  for  a 
man  of  his  limitations.  She  felt  insulted.  She  flew 
up  stairs  and  cried  with  indignation.  '  The  mere 
idea!'  she  said  to  me.  '  How  dared  he!  The  com- 
mon little  biped!'  I  told  her  that  she  had  en- 
couraged him,  and  had  brought  unnecessary  pain 
upon  him  as  well  as  regret  upon  herself.  Then  she 
was  angry  with  me.  By  and  by  she  put  her  hand 
out  in  the  darkness  and  took  mine  and  pressed  it. 
Then  she  said, '  Nora,  it  was  my  fault;  but — but — ' 
and  then  she  began  to  sob  again.  '  But,  Nora,  I 
don't — know — why — I — did — it — and,'  there  was  a 
long  pause.  "  And,  beside,  I  thought  he  was  in  love 
with  you,'  she  sobbed  out." 

"  That  was  the  whole  story,"  said  Cuthbert,  re- 
sentfully. "  She  simply  wanted  to  supplant  you 
and—" 

"  Yes,  that  was  the  whole  story,  as  you  say,  dear," 


24  A  Splendid  Judge  of  a  Woman. 

said  his  wife,  gently;  "but  the  poor  girl  could  not 
help  it.  And — and  she  did  not  understand  it  her- 
self at  all." 

"  You  make  me  provoked,  Nora,"  said  Cuthbert, 
almost  sharply.  "  She  wasn't  a  fool.  She  tried 
the  same  game  on  me  a  year  or  two  later;  but  that 
time  it  didn't  work.  She  even  went  the  length  of 
talking  ill  of  you  to  me — saying  little  cutting 
things — when  she  found  I  had  utterly  succumbed 
to  your  attractions.  I  have  to  laugh  yet  when  I 
think  of  it, — that  is,  when  it  don't  make  me  too 
angry  to  laugh, — how  I  gave  her  a  good  round 
talking  to."  He  laughed  now  at  the  recollec- 
tion. 

"  She  must  have  taken  me  for  her  delightful  old 
grandparent  the  way  I  lectured  her.  But  when  I 
remembered  how  loyal  you  were  to  her,  it  just  made 
my  blood  boil  and  I  told  her  so." 

Mr.  Bailey  shifted  his  position  and  began  to 
contemplate  giving  a  verdict  emphatically  against 
the  absent  lady,  when  Nora  checked  him  by  a  wave 
of  her  fan. 

"  Yes,  I  know  she  did,  Cuthbert,  and  I  know 
everything  you  said  to  her.  You  were  very  cruel 
— if  you  had  understood,  as  you  did  not  and  do 
not  yet.  She  came  and  told  me  all  about  it." 
Cuthbert  Wagner  gave  a  low,  incredulous  whistle, 
and  even  Mr.  Bailey  looked  sceptical. 

"  She  came  back  from  that  drive  with  you  the 
most  wretched  girl  you  ever  saw.  Her  humiliation 
was  pitiful  to  see.     Her  self-reproach  was  touching 


A  Splendid  Judge  of  a  Woman.  25 

and  real.     I  believe  she  would  have  killed  herself 
if  I  had  seemed  to  blame  her." 

Cuthbert  snapped  out: 

"  Humph!  Very  likely;  and  gone  and  done  the 
same  thing  again  the  next  day." 

"  Possibly  that  is  true — if  there  had  been  a  next 
day  with  a  new  temptation  that  was  too  strong  for 
her  on  the  shore  where  she  landed  after  death. 
If—" 

"  If  the  Almighty  had  shown  a  preference  for 
some  one  else,  hey  ?"  asked  Mr.  Bailey,  flippantly. 

"  No  doubt,  no  doubt,"  acquiesced  Nora.  "But 
suppose  you  had  a  weak  leg  and  it  gave  way  at  a 
critical  moment — say  just,  when  you  were  entering 
an  opera  box  to  greet  a  lady.  Suppose  it  dropped 
you  in  a  ridiculous  or  humiliating  manner.  You 
would  rage  and  be  distressed,  and  make  up  your 
mind  not  to  let  it  occur  again,  except  in  the  seclu- 
sion of  your  own  apartments;  but — well,  it  would  be 
quite  as  likely  to  serve  you  the  same  trick  the  fol- 
lowing week,  in  church." 

"  The  illustration  does  not  strike  me  as  quite 
fair,"  said  Mr.  Bailey,  judicially. 

"  Good,  Ned  !  Don't  let  her  argue  you  into  an 
interest  in  that  little  cat.  She  was  simply  a  mali- 
cious little — " 

"  Wait,  then,"  said  Nora,  ignoring  her  husband's 
outburst  and  looking  steadily  at  Margaret  Mintern's 
new  judge,  who  was  showing  signs  of  passing  a  sen- 
tence no  less  severe  than  if  it  were  delivered  by 
Cuthbert  Wagner  himself. 


26  A  Splendid  Judge  of  a  Woman. 

"  Suppose  we  take  your  memory.  Are  there  not 
some  names  or  dates  that  will  drop  out  at  times 
and  leave  you  awkwardly  in  the  lurch?" 

"  Well,  rather,"  said  Mr.  Bailey,  disgustedly.  This 
was  his  weak  spot. 

"  Now,  don't  you  see  that  a  person  who  has  a 
perfect  memory  might  be  as  unfair  to  you  as  you 
are  to  my  old  school  friend  in  her  little  moral  weak- 
ness— if  we  may  call  it  by  so  harsh  a  term  as  that  ? 
That  was  her  one  vulnerable  spot.  It  may  have 
been  born  in  her.  That  I  do  not  know;  but  I  in- 
sist that  it  was  trained  and  drilled  into  her  as  much 
as  her  arithmetic  or  her  catechism  were,  and  with 
a  result  as  inevitable.  She  loathed  her  fault,  but  it 
was  too  strong  for  her.  Her  resolution  to  conquer 
it  dropped  just  short  of  success  very  often,  indeed; 
and  oh  !  how  it  did  hurt  her  when  she  realized  it 
and  thought  it  all  over,  for  her  motives  were  un- 
usually pure,  and  her  moral  sense  was  really  very 
high  indeed." 

"  Moral  sense  was  a  little  frayed  at  the  edges,  I 
think." 

"  Don't,  Cuthbert.  You  are  such  a  cruelly  se- 
vere judge.  I  know  Mr.  Bailey  is  on  my  side,  now, 
and  will  think  you  very  unfair.  He  does  not  mean 
to  be,  I  assure  you,  Mr.  Bailey,  and  if  she  had  not 
spoken  ill  of  me  he  would  see  the  case  fairly.  But 
what  are  you  thinking  ?" 

"  That  it  is  a  rather  big  question.  That  I — that 
I  have  overstayed  my  time.  I  just  came  over  to 
ask  you  to  dine  with  us  next  Thursday.    My  mother 


A  Splendid  Judge  of  a  Woman.  2  J 

has  some  friends  and  wants  you  to  meet  them.  May 
I  leave  my  judicial  decision  open  until  then?" 

"  Certainly.  Pray  over  it,"  said  Cuthbert,  rising; 
"and  if  you  don't  come  out  on  my  side,  openly, — as 
I  know  you  are  in  your  mind, — buy  a  wire  mask.  I 
won't  have  any  dodging." 

"  Come  early.  There  is  a  secret  to  tell,"  laughed 
Mr.  Bailey  as  he  withdrew,  and  then  he  blushed 
furiously.  "  Mother's  secret,"  he  added,  as  he 
closed  the  door  behind  him. 

The  evening  of  the  dinner  the  Wagners  were 
later  than  they  had  intended  to  be,  and  Mrs.  Bailey 
took  Nora  aside  and  said  quite  abruptly: 

"  I've  got  to  pop  it  at  you  rather  suddenly.  Why 
didn't  you  come  earlier  ?  The  lady  whom  Ned  is 
to  marry  is  here,  and  it  is  for  her  I  have  given  the 
dinner.  Ned  went  to  your  house  to  tell  you  last 
week,  but  his  heart  failed  him.  He  said  you  were 
all  in  such  a  gale  of  nonsense  that  he  concluded  to 
wait.  It  is  a  very  tender  subject  with  him,  I  assure 
you.  His  case  is  quite  hopeless.  He  is  madly  in 
love,  and  I  am  very  much  pleased  with  his  choice. 
She  seems  as  nearly  perfect  as  they  ever  are,  and  she 
is  unusually  talented.  But  here  is  Ned  now.  I 
have  told  her  all  about  it,  my  son,  come  and  be 
congratulated." 

He  came  forward  shyly  enough  for  a  man  of  his 
years  and  experience,  and  took  Nora's  hand  in  a 
helpless  way.  But  Cuthbert  relieved  matters  at 
once  by  a  hearty  "  Well,  it  is  splendid,  old  fellow. 
I'm  delighted.     I—" 


28  A  Splendid  Judge  of  a  Woman. 

"  But  before  the  others  come   down,"  broke  in 
Mr.  Bailey,  as  if  to  get  away  from  the  subject,  "  I 
want  to  get  my  discharge  papers  in  that  case  you 
plead  before  me  last  week.     It  lies  heavy  on  my 
soul,  for  I  am  very  sorry  to  say,  Mrs.  Wagner,  that 
I  am  compelled  to  give  judgment  against  you  and 
your  client.     I  think  she  was — I'm  with  Cuthbert 
this  time.     She  impresses  me  as  almost  without  re- 
deeming qualities.     I  do  not  wish  to  make  her  ac- 
quaintance.    I  am  sure  that  I   could   never  force 
myself  to  take  even  a  passing  interest  in  that  sort 
of  a  moral  acrobat.     Really,  the  lovely  but  selfish 
Julia  would  be  my  choice  in  a  team  of  vicious  lit- 
tle pacers  like  that.     I'm  sure  I  should  detect  your 
friend's  fatal  weakness  in  her  every  action.  I  should 
be  unable  to  see  anything  but  the  hideous  green- 
eyed  monster  even  in  the  folds  of  her  lace  gowns 
or  the  coils  of  her  shining  hair.     He  would  appear 
to  me,  ghost-like,  peering  over  her  shoulder  in  the 
midst  of  her  most  fascinating  conversation.   I  should 
feel   his   fangs  and  see  the  glitter  of   his  wicked 
eyes  while  I  tried  to  say  small  nothings  to  her, 
and—" 

"  Oh,  not  at  all,"  protested  Nora.  "  You  would 
never  detect  it  at  all  unless  she  happened  to  be 
fighting  for  your  esteem  or  admiration  where  she 
felt  that  odds  were  against  her.     She — " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Wagner,  but  I  am 
quite  sure  that  I  should.  Envy  is  to  me  the  very 
worst  trait  in  the  human  character.  I  could  more 
easily  excuse  or  be  blinded  to    anything  else.     I 


A  Splendid  Judge  of  a  Woman.  29 

know  that  I  should  detect  it  at  once.     I  always  do 
— especially  in  a  woman." 

"Certainly.  Anybody  could.  You  know  very 
well,  Nora,  that  I  saw — "  began  Cuthbert  quite  glee- 
fully; but  as  a  salve  to  her  wounded  feelings  Mr. 
Bailey  added  in  a  tone  of  conciliation  to  Nora: 

"  However,  I  shall  agree  to  let  you  test  me  some 
day.  Present  your  friend  to  me,  incog.,  and  I'll 
wager — oh,  anything  that  I  shall  read  her  like  a  book 
on  sight.  I'm  a  splendid  judge  of  a  woman.  Always 
was  from  childhood.  I'm  sure  that  I  should  feel 
creepy  the  moment  I  saw  the  brilliant  but  envious 
granddaughter  of  the  unfortunate  old  warrior. 
And  by  the  way,  he  continues  to  be  the  one  for 
whom  you  have  enlisted  my  sympathy.  I  wonder 
that  he  was  able  to  live  two  weeks  in  the  same 
house  with  such  a — " 

"  Cat,"  said  Cuthbert,  with  a  vicious  jab  at  a 
paper-weight  which  represented  a  solemn-looking 
Chinese  god  in  brocade  trousers.  He  was  just 
turning  to  enter  into  a  cheerful  and  elaborate 
statement  of  his  side  of  the  controversy,  as  Mrs. 
Bailey  swept  down  the  room  with  her  son's  be- 
trothed upon  her  arm,  smiling  and  happy. 

"  Margaret  Mintern  !"  exclaimed  Nora,  in  dis- 
may, and  then — 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  again,  dear,  and  to  be 
able  to  congratulate  you,  instead  of  some  fair  un- 
known, upon  the  fact  that  you  are  to  have  so  dear 
a  friend  of  ours  for  a  husband.  We  think  every- 
thing of  Mr.  Bailey.    He  is  Bert's  best  friend  and — " 


30  A  Splendid  Judge  of  a  Woman. 

Cuthbert  had  turned  half  away  in  utter  confu- 
sion when  he  saw  the  ladies  coming  down  the  room, 
and  feigned  an  absorption  in  the  rotund  Chinese 
deity  which  he  had  never  displayed  for  the  one  of 
his  own  nation.  But  he  bowed  now,  and  mumbled 
some  inarticulate  sounds  as  he  looked,  not  at  the 
future  Mrs.  Bailey,  but  at  the  ridiculously  happy 
face  of  her  lover,  whose  usually  ready  tongue  was 
silent  as  he  hung  upon  the  lightest  tone  of  the 
brilliant  woman  beside  him.  As  they  passed  into 
the  dining-room,  Nora  managed  to  say  to  her  hus- 
band: 

"  Thank  heaven  we  did  not  mention  her  name 
to  him,  and  he  evidently  does  not  suspect.  Pull 
yourself  together  and  stumble  through  your  part 
the  best  you  can,  dear,  without  attracting  his  at- 
tention. And  then  you  know  that  he  and  you 
agree  perfectly  about  the — cat,"  she  added  wick- 
edly, and  then  she  smiled  quietly  as  she  took  her 
seat  next  to  the  blissful  lover  and  the  relentless 
judge  of  the  school  friend  of  her  youth. 


XTbe  Xaoy  of  tbe  Club* 


'l  Poor  naked  wretches,  wheresoever  you  are, 
That  bide  the  pelting  of  this  pitiless  storm, 
How  shall  your  houseless  heads,  and  unfed  sides, 
Your  looped,  and  window' 'd  raggedness%  defend  you 
Fron  seasons  such  as  these  ?     O,  I  have  ta'en 
Too  tittle  care  of  this  !     Take  physic,  pomp; 
Expose  thyself  to  feel  what  wretches  feel; 
That  thou  may's t  shake  the  superftux  to  them, 
And  show  the  heavens  more  just.'1'' 

Shakespeare 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  CLUB. 


The  old  and  somewhat  cynical  saying,  that  phi- 
losophers and  reformers  can  bear  the  griefs  and 
woes  of  other  people  with  a  heroism  and  resigna- 
tion worthy  of  their  creeds,  would  have  fitted  the 
case  of  Roland  Barker  only  when  shorn  of  the  in- 
tentional sting  of  sarcasm.  It  is,  nevertheless,  true 
that  even  his  nobly-gifted  nature,  his  tender  heart, 
and  his  alert  brain  sometimes  failed  to  grasp  the 
very  pith  and  point  of  his  own  arguments. 

He  was  a  wealthy  man  whose  sympathies  were 
earnestly  with  the  poor  and  unfortunate.  He  be- 
lieved that  he  understood  their  sufferings,  their 
ambitions,  and  their  needs ;  and  his  voice  and  pen 
were  no  more  truly  on  the  side  of  charity  and 
brotherly  kindness  than  was  his  purse. 

It  was  no  unusual  thing  for  him  to  attend  a 
meeting,  address  a  club,  or  take  part  in  a  memorial 
service,  where  his  was  the  only  hand  unused  to 
toil,  and  where  he  alone  bore  all  expense,  and  then 
— after  dressing  himself  in  the  most  approved  and 
faultless  manner — become  the  guest  of  honor  at 
some  fashionable  entertainment.     Indeed,  he  was 

33 


34  The  Lady  of  the  Club. 

a  leader  in  fashion  as  well  as  in  philosophy,  and  at 
once  a  hero  in  Avenue  A  and  on  Murray  Hill- 
On  the  evening  of  which  I  am  about  to  tell  you 
he  had  addressed  a  club  of  workingmen  in  their 
little  dingy  hall,  taking  as  his  subject  "  Realities  of 
Life."  He  had  sought  to  show  them  that  poverty 
and  toil  are  not,  after  all,  the  worst  that  can  befall 
a  man,  and  that  the  most  acute  misery  dwells  in 
palaces  and  is  robed  in  purple. 

He  spoke  with  the  feeling  of  one  who  had  him- 
self suffered— as,  indeed,  he  had— from  the  unsym- 
pathetic associations  of  an  uncongenial  marriage. 
He  portrayed,  with  deep  feeling,  the  chill  atmos- 
phere of  a  loveless  home,  whose  wealth  and  glitter 
and  lustre  could  never  thrill  and  enrapture  the 
heart  as  might  the  loving  hand-clasp  in  the  bare, 
chill  rooms  where  sympathy  and  affection  were  the 
companions  of  poverty. 

I  had  admired  his  enthusiasm  as  he  pictured  the 
joy  of  sacrifice  for  the  sake  of  those  we  love,  and  I 
had  been  deeply  touched  by  his  pathos — a  pathos 
which  I  knew,  alas,  too  well,  sprang  from  a  hungry 
heart — whether,  as  now,  it  beat  beneath  a  simple 
coat  of  tweed  or,  as  when  hours  later,  it  would 
still  be  the  prisoner  of  its  mighty  longing,  though 
clothed  with  elegance  and  seated  at  a  banquet  fit 
for  princes. 

The  last  words  fell  slowly  from  his  lips,  and  his 
eyes  were  dimmed,  as  were  the  eyes  of  all  about 
me.  His  voice,  so  full  of  feeling,  had  hardly  ceased 
to  throb  when,  far  back  in  the  little  hall,  arose  a 


The  Lady  of  the  Club.  35 

woman,  thin  and  worn,  and  plainly  clad,  but  show- 
ing traces  of  a  beauty  and  refinement  which  had 
held  their  own  and  fought  their  way  inch  by  inch 
in  spite  of  poverty,  anxiety,  and  tears.  The  chair- 
man recognized  her  and  asked  her  to  the  platform. 

"  No,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  tremulous  tone  which 
showed  at  once  her  feeling  and  her  culture — "  no, 
I  do  not  wish  to  take  the  platform;  but  since  you 
ask  for  criticism  of  the  kind  speech  we  have  just 
listened  to,  it  has  seemed  to  me  that  I  might  offer 
one,  although  I  am  a  stranger  to  you  all." 

Her  voice  trembled,  and  she  held  firmly  to  the 
back  of  a  chair  in  front  of  her.  The  chairman 
signified  his  willingness  to  extend  to  her  the  privi- 
lege of  the  floor,  and  there  was  slight  applause. 
She  bowed  and  began  again  slowly: 

"  I  sometimes  think  that  it  is  useless  to  ever  try 
to  make  the  suffering  rich  and  the  suffering  poor 
understand  each  other.  I  do  not  question  that  the 
gentleman  has  tasted  sorrow.  All  good  men  have. 
I  do  not  question  that  his  heart  is  warm  and  true 
and  honest,  and  that  he  truly  thinks  what  he  has 
said  ;  but " — and  here  her  voice  broke  a  little  and 
her  lip  trembled — "  but  he  does  not  know  what  real 
suffering  is.     He  cannot.     No  rich  man  can." 

There  was  a  movement  of  impatience  in  the 
room,  and  some  one  said,  loud  enough  to  be  heard, 
"  If  she  thinks  money  can  bring  happiness  she  is 
badly  left." 

There  was  a  slight  ripple  of  laughter  at  this,  and 
even  the  serious  face  of  Roland  Barker  grew  almost 


36  The  Lady  of  the  Club. 

merry  for  a  moment.  Then  the  woman  went  on, 
without  appearing  to  have  noticed  the  interrup- 
tion: 

"  I  do  not  want  to  seem  ungracious,  and  heaven 
knows,  no  one  could  mean  more  kindly  what  I  say; 
but  he  has  said  that  money  is  not  needed  to  make 
us  happy — only  love  ;  and  again  he  quotes  that 
baseless  old  maxim,  '  The  love  of  money  is  the  root 
of  all  evil.'  "  She  paused,  then  went  slowly  on  as 
if  feeling  her  way  and  fearing  to  lose  her  hold 
upon  herself  :  "  I  know  it  is  a  sad  and  cruel  world 
even  to  the  more  fortunate,  if  they  have  hearts  to 
feel  and  brains  to  think.  To  the  unloving  or  un- 
loved there  must  be  little  worth;  but  they  at  least 
are  spared  the  agony  that  sits  where  love  and  pov- 
erty have  shaken  hands  with  death" — her  voice 
broke,  and  there  was  a  painful  silence  in  the  room 
— "  where  those  who  love  are  wrung  and  torn  by 
all  the  thousand  fears  and  apprehensions  of  ills  that 
are  to  come  to  wife  and  child  and  friend.  The 
day  has  passed  when  all  this  talk  of  poverty  and 
love — that  love  makes  want  an  easy  thing  to  bear 
— the  day  has  passed,  I  say,  when  sane  men  ought 
to  think,  or  wise  men  speak,  such  cruel,  false,  and 
harmful  words.  He  truly  says  that  money  without 
love  cannot  bring  happiness;  but  that  is  only  half 
the  truth,  for  love  with  poverty  can  bring,  does 
bring,  the  keenest  agony  that  mortals  ever  bore." 

There  was  a  movement  of  dissent  in  the  hall. 
She  lifted  her  face  a  moment,  contracted  her  lips, 
drew  a  long  breath,  and  said: 


The  Lady  of  the  Club.  37 

"  I  will  explain.  Without  the  love,  poverty  were 
light  enough  to  bear.  What  does  it  matter  for 
one's  self  ?  It  is  the  love  that  gives  the  awful  sting 
to  want,  and  makes  its  cruel  fingers  grip  the  throat 
as  never  vise  or  grappling-hook  took  hold,  and 
torture  with  a  keener  zest  than  fiends  their  victims  ! 
Love  and  Poverty  !  //  is  the  combination  that  devils 
invented  to  make  a  hell  on  earth." 

All  eyes  were  fastened  on  her  white  face  now,  and 
she  was  rushing  on,  her  words,  hot  and  impassioned, 
striking  firm  on  every  point  she  made. 

"Let  me  give  you  a  case.  In  a  home  where 
comfort  is — or  wealth — a  mother  sits,  watching  by 
night  and  day  the  awful  hand  of  Death  reach 
nearer,  closer  to  her  precious  babe,  and  nothing 
that  skill  or  science  can  suggest  will  stay  the  hand 
or  heal  the  aching  heart ;  and  yet  there  is  comfort 
in  the  thought  that  all  was  done  that  love  and 
wealth  and  skill  could  do,  and  that  it  was  Nature's 
way.  But  take  from  her  the  comfort  of  that 
thought.  She  watches  with  the  same  poor,  break- 
ing heart,  but  with  the  knowledge,  now,  to  keep 
her  company,  that  science  might,  ah  !  could,  push 
back  the  end,  could  even  cure  her  babe  if  but  the 
means  to  pay  for  skill  and  change  and  wholesome 
food  and  air  were  hers.  Is  that  no  added  pang? 
Is  poverty  no  curse  to  her  ? — a  curse  the  deeper  for 
her  depth  of  love  ?  The  rich  know  naught  of  this. 
It  gives  to  life  its  wildest  agony,  to  love  its  deepest 
hurt." 

She  paused.     There  was  a  slight  stir  as  if  some 


38  The  Lady  of  the  Club. 

one  had  thought  to  offer  applause,  and  then  the 
silence  fell  again,  and  she  began  anew,  with  shining 
eyes  and  cheeks  aflame.  She  swayed  a  little  as  she 
spoke  and  clutched  the  chair  as  for  support.  Her 
voice  grew  hoarse,  and  trembled,  and  she  fixed  her 
gaze  upon  a  vacant  chair: 

"  But  let  me  tell  you  of  another  case.  A  stone's 
throw  from  this  hall,  where  pretty  things  are  said 
*week  after  week — and  kindly  meant,  I  know — of 
poverty  and  love — of  the  blessedness  of  these — 
there  is  a  living  illustration,  worth  more  than  all 
the  theories  ever  spun,  to  tell  you  what  'realities  of 
life'  must  be  where  love  is  great  and  poverty  holds 
sway.  Picture,  with  me,  the  torture  and  despair  of 
a  refined  and  cultured  woman  who  watches  hour  by 
hour  the  long  months  through,  and  sees  the  creep- 
ing feet  of  mental  wreck  and  physical  decay,  and 
knows  the  mortal  need  of  care  and  calm  for  him 
who  is  the  whole  of  life  to  her,  and  for  the  want  of 
that  which  others  waste  and  hold  as  dross  he  must 
work  on  and  on,  hastening  each  day  the  end  he  does 
not  see,  which  shall  deprive  him  of  all  of  life  except 
the  power  for  ill.  .  .  .  She  will  be  worse  than 
widowed  and  alone,  for  ever  by  her  side  sits  Want, 
for  him,  tearing  at  every  chord  of  heart  and  soul — 
not  for  herself — but  for  that  dearer  one,  wrecked  in 
the  prime  of  life  and  left  a  clod  endowed  only  with 
strength  for  cruel  wrong,  whose  hand  would  sheath 
a  knife  in  her  dear  heart  and  laugh  with  maniac 
glee  at  his  mad  deeds.  She  saw  the  end.  She 
knew  long  months  ago  what  was  to  be,  if  he  must 


The  Lady  of  the  Club.  39 

toil  and  strain  his  nerve  and  brain  for  need  of  that 
which  goes  from  knave  to  knave,  and  hoards  itself 
within  cathedral  walls,  where  wise  men  meet  to 
teach  the  poor  contentment  with  their  lot !  She 
knew  he  must  not  know;  the  knowledge  of  the 
shadow  must  be  kept  from  his  dear  brain  until  the 
very  end,  by  smiles,  and  cheer,  and  merry  jest  from 
her.  Who  dare  tell  her  that  riches  are  a  curse? 
and  prate  of  '  dross'  and  call  on  heaven  to  witness 
that  its  loss  is  only  gain  of  joy  and  harbinger 
of  higher,  holier  things  ?  Who  dare  call  her  as  wit- 
ness for  the  bliss  of  poverty  with  love  ?" 

She  slowly  raised  her  hand  and,  with  a  quick- 
drawn  breath,  pressed  it  against  her  side,  and  with 
her  eyes  still  fastened  on  the  vacant  chair,  and  tears 
upon  her  cheeks,  falling  unchecked  upon  her  heav- 
ing bosom,  she  held  each  listener  silent  and  intent 
on  every  word  she  spoke.  The  time  allotted  anyone 
was  long  since  overrun;  but  no  one  thought  of  that, 
and  she  went  on: 

'"With  love!'  Ah,  there  is  where  the  iron  can 
burn  and  scar  and  open  every  wound  afresh  each 
day,  make  poverty  a  curse,  a  blight,  a  scourge, 
a  vulture,  iron-beaked,  with  claws  of  burning  steel, 
that  leave  no  nerve  untouched,  no  drop  of  blood 
unshed. 

"'With  love!'  Tis  there  the  hand  of  Poverty 
can  deal  the  deadliest  blows,  and  show,  as  nowhere 
else  on  earth,  the  value  of  that  slandered,  hoarded 
thing  called  wealth." 

There  blazed  into  her  face  a  fierce,  indignant 


40  The  Lady  of  the  Club. 

light,  her  voice  swelled  out  and  struck  upon  the  ear 
like  fire-bells  in  the  dead  of  night. 

"'The  root  of  evil!' — 'poverty  with  love!' 
Hypocrisy,  in  purple  velvet  robed,  behind  stained 
glass,  with  strains  of  music  falling  on  its  ears,  with 
table  spread  in  banquet-hall  below,  bethought  itself 
to  argue  thus  to  those  itself  had  robbed;  while, 
thoughtless  of  its  meaning  and  its  birth,  the  echo 
of  its  lying,  treacherous  words  comes  from  the  pal- 
lid lips  of  many  a  wretch  whose  life  has  been  a  fail- 
ure and  an  agony  because  of  that  which  he  himself 
extols.  A  lie  once  born  contains  a  thousand  lives, 
and  holds  at  bay  the  struggling,  feeble  truth,  if  but 
that  lie  be  fathered  by  a  priest  and  mothered  by  a 
throne — as  this  one  was  J  '  The  root  of  evil '  is  the 
spring  of  joy.  Decry  it  those  who  will.  And 
those  who  do  not  love,  perchance,  may  laugh  at  all 
its  need  can  mean;  but  to  the  loving,  suffering  poor 
bring  no  more  cant,  and  cease  to  voice  the  hollow 
words  of  Ignorance  and  Hypocrisy.  It  is  too  cruel, 
and  its  deadly  breath  has  long  enough  polluted 
sympathy  and  frozen  up  the  springs  of  healthy 
thought,  while  sheathing  venomed  fangs  in  break- 
ing hearts.  Recast  your  heartless  creeds  !  Your 
theories  for  the  poor  are  built  on  these." 

She  sank  back  into  her  chair  white  and  ex- 
hausted. 

There  was  a  wild  burst  of  applause.  A  part  of 
the  audience,  with  that  ear  for  sound  and  that  lack 
of  sense  to  be  found  in  all  such  gatherings,  had  for- 
gotten that  it  was  not  listening  to  a  burst  of  elo- 


The  Lady  of  the  Club.  41 

quence  which  had  been  duly  written  out  and  com- 
mitted to  memory  for  the  occasion. 

But  Roland  Barker  sprang  to  his  feet,  held  both 
his  hands  up,  to  command  silence,  and  said,  in  a 
scarcely  audible  voice,  as  he  trembled  from  head 
to  foot:  "  Hush,  hush  !  She  has  told  the  truth! 
She  has  told  the  awful  truth  !  I  never  saw  it  all 
before.  Heaven  help  you  to  bear  it.  It  seems  to 
me  I  cannot  !" 

Several  were  pale  and  weeping.  I  turned  to 
speak  to  the  woman  who  had  changed  an  evening's 
entertainment  into  a  tragic  scene;  but  she  had 
slipped  out  during  the  excitement.  I  took  Barker's 
arm  and  we  walked  towards  the  Avenue  together. 
Neither  of  us  spoke  until  we  reached  Madison 
Square.  Here  the  poor  fellow  sank  into  a  seat 
and  pulled  me  down  beside  him. 

"  Don't  talk  to  me  about  theories  after  that,"  he 
said.  "  Great  God  !  I  am  more  dead  than  alive. 
I  feel  fifty  years  older  than  when  I  went  to  that 
little  hall  to  teach  those  people  how  to  live  by  my 
fine  philosophy,  and  I  truly  thought  that  I  had 
tasted  sorrow  and  found  the  key  to  resignation. 
Ye  gods  !" 

"  Perhaps  you  have,"  I  said. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  replied,  impatiently;  "but  sup- 
pose I  had  to  face  life  day  by  day,  hour  by  hour,  as 
that  woman  pictured  it — and  she  was  a  lady  with 
as  keen  a  sense  of  pain  as  I — what  do  you  sup- 
pose my  philosophy  would  do  for  me  then  ? 
Do  you    think  I   could  endure   it  ?     And   I   went 


42  The  Lady  of  t lie  Club. 

there  to  teach  those  people  how  to  suffer  and  be 
strong  !" 

"  Look  here,  Barker,"  I  said,  "  you'd  better  go 
home  now  and  go  to  bed.  You  are  cold  and  tired, 
and  this  won't  help  matters  any." 

"  What  will  ?"  he  asked. 

I  made  no  reply.  When  we  reached  his  door  he 
asked  again: 

"*Vh&t  will  ?" 

I  shook  my  head  and  left  him  standing  in  the 
brilliant  hall  of  his  beautiful  home,  dazed  and  puz- 
zled and  alone. 


II. 

The  next  time  I  met  Roland  Barker  he  grasped 
my  hand  and  said  excitedly:  "I  have  found  that 
woman  !  What  she  said  is  all  true.  My  God  ! 
what  is  to  be  done  ?  I  feel  like  a  strong  man  tied 
hand  and  foot,  while  devilish  vultures  feed  on  the 
flesh  of  living  babes  before  my  eyes  !" 

"Stop,  Barker,"  I  said;  "stop,  and  go  away  for 
a  while,  or  you  will  go  mad.  What  have  you  been 
doing?  Look  at  your  hands;  they  tremble  like  the 
hands  of  a  palsied  man;  and  your  face;  why, 
Barker,  your  face  is  haggard  and  set,  and  your  hair 
is  actually  turning  gray  !  What  in  the  name  of  all 
that's  holy  have  you  been  doing?" 

"  Nothing,    absolutely   nothing !"   he   exclaimed 
"  That  is  the  trouble  !     What  can  I  do  ?     I  tell  you 


The  Lady  of  the  Club.  43 

something  is  wrong,  Gordon,  something  is  desper- 
ately wrong  in  this  world.  Look  at  that  pile  of 
stone  over  there:  millions  of  dollars  are  built  into 
that.  It  is  opened  once  each  week,  aired,  cleaned, 
and  put  in  order  for  a  fashionable  audience  dressed 
in  silk  and  broadcloth.  They  call  it  a  church,  but 
it  is  simply  a  popular  club  house,  which,  unlike 
other  club  houses,  hasn't  the  grace  to  pay  its  own 
taxes.  They  use  that  club  house,  let  us  say,  three 
hours  in  all,  each  week,  for  what  ?  To  listen  to 
elaborate  music  and  fine-spun  theories  about  an- 
other world.  They  are  asked  to,  and  they  give 
money  to  send  these  same  theories  to  nations  far 
away,  who — to  put  it  mildly — are  quite  as  well  off 
without  them.  Then  that  house  is  closed  for  a 
week,  and  those  who  sat  there  really  believe  that 
they  have  done  what  is  right  by  their  fellow-men  ! 
Their  natural  consciences,  their  sense  of  right  and 
justice,  have  been  given  an  anaesthetic.  '  The  poor 
ye  have  with  you  always,'  they  are  taught  to  be- 
lieve, is  not  only  true,  but  right.  I  tell  you,  Gor- 
don, it  is  all  perfectly  damnable,  and  it  seems  to 
me  that  I  cannot  bear  it  when  I  remember  that 
woman." 

"  She  is  only  one  of  a  great  many,"  I  suggested. 

Roland  Barker  groaned:  "My  God!  that  is  the 
trouble — so  many  that  the  thing  seems  hopeless. 
And  to  think  that  on  every  one  of  even  these  poor 
souls  is  laid  another  burden  that  that  stone  spire 
may  go  untaxed !" 

"  Barker,"  I  said,  laying  my  hand  on  his  arm, 


44  The  Lady  of  the  Club. 

"tell  me  what  has  forced  all  this  upon  you  with 
such  a  terrible  weight  just  now." 

"  Not  here,  not  now,"  he  said.  "  I  have  written 
it  down  just  as  she  told  it  to  me — you  know  I 
learned  stenography  when  I  began  taking  an  interest 
in  public  meetings.  Well,  I've  just  been  copying 
those  notes  out.  They  are  in  my  pocket,"  he  said, 
laying  his  hand  on  his  breast.  "  They  seem  to  burn 
my  very  soul.  I  would  not  dare  to  trust  myself  to 
read  them  to  you  here.     Come  home  with  me." 

When  we  were  seated  in  his  magnificent  library, 
he  glanced  about  him,  and  with  a  wave  of  his  hand 
said,  with  infinite  satire:  "You  will  notice  the  strik- 
ing appropriateness  of  the  surroundings  and  the 
subject." 

"No  doubt,"  I  said.  "I  have  often  noticed  that 
before,  especially  the  last  time  I  heard  a  sermon 
preached  to  three  of  the  Vanderbilts,  two  Astors, 
five  other  millionaires,  and  about  sixty  more  con- 
sistent Christians,  all  of  whom  were  wealthy.  The 
subject  was  Christ's  advice  to  the  rich  young  man, 
'  Sell  all  thou  hast  and  give  to  the  poor.'  But  never 
mind;  go  on;  the  day  has  passed  when  deed  and 
creed  are  supposed  to  hold  the  slightest  relation  to 
each  other;  and  what  is  a  $20,000  salary  for  if  not 
to  buy  sufficient  ability  to  explain  it  all  sweetly 
away  and  administer,  at  the  same  time,  an  anaes- 
thetic to  the  natural  consciences  of  men?" 

I  settled  myself  in  a  large  Turkish  chair  on  one 
side  of  the  splendidly  carved  table;  he  stood  on  the 
other    side    sorting    a    manuscript.     Presently    he 


The  Lady  of  the  Club.  45 

began  reading  it.  "'When  I  married  Frank 
Melville  he  was  strong  and  grand  and  brave;  a 
truer  man  never  lived.  He  had  been  educated  for 
the  law.  His  practice  was  small,  but  we  were  able 
to  live  very  well  on  what  he  made,  and  the  prospect 
for  the  future  was  bright.  We  loved  each  other — 
but,  ah !  there  are  no  words  to  tell  that.  We 
worshipped  each  other  as  only  two  who  have  been 
happily  mated  can  ever  understand.  We  lived  up 
to  his  salary.  Perhaps  you  will  say  that  that  was 
not  wise.  We  thought  it  was.  A  good  appearance, 
a  fairly  good  appearance  at  least,  was  all  that 
we  could  make,  and  to  hold  his  own  in  his  pro- 
fession, this  was  necessary.  You  know  how  that  is. 
A  shabby-looking  man  soon  loses  his  hold  on 
paying  clients.  Of  course  he  would  not  dress  well 
and  allow  me  to  be  ill-clad.  He — he  loved  me. 
We  were  never  able  to  lay  by  anything ;  but  we 
were  young  and  strong  and  hopeful — and  we  loved 
each  other.'"  Barker's  voice  trembled.  He  looked 
at  me  a  moment  and  then  said  very  low:  "If  you 
could  have  seen  her  poor,  tired,  beautiful  eyes  when 
she  said  that." 

"  I  can  imagine  how  she  looked,"  I  said.  "  She 
had  a  face  one  remembers." 

After  a  little  he  went  on  :  "  We  had  both  been 
brought  up  to  live  well.  Our  friends  were  people  of 
culture,  and  we — it  will  sound  strange  to  you  for 
me  to  say  that  our  love  and  devotion  were  the  ad- 
miration and  talk  of  all  of  them. 

By-and-by  I  was  taken  ill.     My  husband  could 


<(  i 


46  The  Lady  of  the  Club. 

not  bear  to  think  of  me  as  at  home  alone,  suffering 
He  stayed  with  me  a  great  deal.  I  did  not  know 
that  he  was  neglecting  his  business;  I  think  he  did 
not  realize  it  then;  he  thought  he  could  make  it  all 
up;  he  was  strong  and — he  loved  me.  At  last  the 
doctors  told  him  that  I  should  die  if  he  did  not 
take  me  away;  I  ought  to  have  an  ocean  voyage. 
It  almost  killed  him  that  he  could  not  give  me  that. 
We  had  not  the  money.  He  took  me  away  a  little 
while  where  I  could  breathe  the  salt  air,  and 
the  good  it  did  me  made  his  heart  only  the  sadder 
when  he  saw  that  it  was  true  that  all  I  needed  was 
an  ocean  voyage.  The  climate  of  his  home  was 
slowly  killing  me.  We  bore  it  as  long  as  we  dared, 
and  I  got  so  weak  that  he  almost  went  mad.  Then 
we  moved  here,  where  my  health  was  good.  But  it 
was  a  terrible  task  to  get  business;  there  were 
so  many  others  like  him,  all  fighting,  as  if  for  life, 
for  money  enough  to  live  on  from  day  to  day.  The 
strain  was  too  much  for  him,  and  just  as  he  began 
to  gain  a  footing  he  fell  ill,  and — and  if  we  had  had 
money  enough  for  him  to  take  a  rest  then,  and  have 
proper  care,  good  doctors,  and  be  relieved  from 
immediate  anxiety,  he  would  have  gotten  well,  with 
my  care — I  loved  him  so  !  But  as  it  was — '  Shall  I 
show  you  the  end  ?"  Barker  stopped,  he  was  trem- 
bling violently,  his  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  I  waited. 
Presently  he  said,  huskily:  "Shall  I  tell  you,  Gor- 
don, what  I  saw?  I  have  not  gotten  over  it  yet. 
She  laid  her  finger  on  her  lips  and  motioned  me  to 
follow.     The  room  where  we  had  been  was  poor  and 


The  Lady  of  the  Club.  47 

bare.  She  took  a  key  from  her  bosom,  opened  a 
door,  and  went  in.  I  followed.  Sitting  in  the  only 
comfortable  chair — which  had  been  handsome  once 
— was  a  magnificent-looking  man,  so  far  as  mere 
physical  proportions  can  make  one  that. 

"  '  Darling,'  she  said  tenderly,  as  if  talking  to  a 
little  child.  '  Darling,  I  have  brought  you  a  pres- 
ent.    Are  you  glad?' 

"  She  handed  him  a  withered  rose  that  I  had 
carelessly  dropped  as  I  went  in. 

"  He  arose,  bowed  to  me  when  she  presented  me, 
waved  me  to  his  chair,  took  the  flower,  looked  at 
her  with  infinite  love,  and  said:  '  To-morrow,  little 
wife;  wait  till  to-morrow.' 

"  Then  he  sat  down,  evidently  unconscious  of 
my  presence,  and  gazed  steadily  at  her  for  a  mo- 
ment, seeming  to  forget  all  else  and  to  struggle 
with  some  thought  that  constantly  eluded  him. 
She  patted  his  hand  as  if  he  were  a  child,  smiling 
through  her  heart-break  all  the  while,  kissed  him, 
and  motioned  me  to  precede  her  from  the  room. 

"  When  she  came  out  she  locked  the  door  care- 
fully behind  her,  sank  into  a  chair,  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands,  and  sobbed  as  if  her  heart 
would  break.  After  a  while  she  said:  '  A  little 
money  would  have  saved,  him  and  now  it  is  too  late, 
too  late.  Sometimes  he  is  violent,  sometimes  like 
that.  The  doctors  say  the  end  is  not  far  off,  and 
that  any  moment  he  may  kill  me,  and  afterwards 
awake  to  know  it !  It  is  all  the  result  of  poverty 
with   love!'    she    said.     Then,   passionately:  'If  I 


48  The  Lady  of  the  Club. 

did  not  love  him  so  I  could  bear  it,  but  I  cannot,  1 
cannot !  And  how  will  he  bear  it  if  he  ever  harms 
me — and  I  not  there  to  help  him  ?'  " 

Barker  stepped  to  the  window  to  hide  his  emo- 
tion. Presently  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  trembled: 
"  If  she  did  not  love  him  so  she  could  let  him  go 
to  some— asylum;  but  she  knows  the  end  is  sure, 
and  not  far  off,  and  that  the  gleams  of  light  he 
has  are  when  he  sees  her  face.  She  has  parted 
with  everything  that  made  life  attractive  to  keep 
food  and  warmth  for  him.  She  is  simply  existing 
now  from  day  to  day — one  constant  agony  of  soul 
and  sense — waiting  for  the  end.  She  allowed  me 
to  take  a  doctor  to  see  him;  I  would  have  come 
for  you,  but  you  were  out  of  town.  He  only  con- 
firmed what  others  had  told  her  a  year  ago.  He 
advised  her  to  have  him  put  in  a  safe  place  before 
he  did  some  violence;  but  she  refused,  and  made 
us  promise  not  to  interfere.  She  said  he  would  be 
able  to  harm  no  one  but  her,  if  he  became  violent 
at  the  last,  and  she  was  ready  for  that.  It  was 
easier  far  to  live  that  way  and  wait  for  that  each 
day  than  to  have  him  taken  away  where  he  would 
be  unhappy  and  perhaps  ill-treated.  He  needed 
her  care  and  love  beside  him  every  hour,  and  she 
— she  needed  nothing." 

Here  Barker  flung  himself  into  a  chair  and  let 
his  head  fall  on  his  folded  arms  on  the  table. 

"  That  is  the  way  love  makes  poverty  easy  to 
bear,"  he  said,  bitterly,  after  a  time,  and  his  trem- 
bling hands  clinched  tight  together. 


The  Lady  of  the  Club.  49 

"  Did  you  give  her  any  money  ?"  I  asked. 

He  groaned.  "  Yes,  yes,  I— that  is,  I  left  some  on 
the  table  under  her  sewing.  She  isn't  the  kind  of 
woman  one  can  offer  charity.     She — " 

"  No,"  I  said,  "  she  isn't,  and  beside,  for  the 
pain  that  tortures  her  it  is  too  late  now  for  money 
to  help.  Only  it  may  relieve  her  somewhat  to  feel 
sure  that  she  can  get  what  he  needs  to  eat  and 
wear  and  to  keep  him  warm  and  allow  her  to  be 
free  from  the  necessity  of  outside  work.  I  am  glad 
you  left  the  money.  But — but — Barker,  do  you 
think  she  will  use  it,  coming  that  way  and  from  a 
stranger?" 

He  looked  up  forlornly.  "  No,  I  don't,"  he  said; 
"  and  yet  she  may.  I  will  hope  so;  but  if  she  does, 
what  then  ?  The  terrible  question  will  still  remain 
just  where  it  was.  That  is  no  way  to  solve  it;  we 
can't  bail  out  the  ocean  with  a  thimble.  And 
what  an  infamous  imposition  all  this  talk  is  of 
*  resignation  '  to  such  as  she;  for  her  terrible  calm, 
as  she  talked  to  me,  had  no  hint  of  resignation  in 
it.  She  is  simply,  calmly,  quietly  desperate  now — 
and  she  is  one  of  many."     He  groaned  aloud. 

"  Will  you  take  me  there  the  next  time  you  go  ?" 
I  asked. 

"  She  said  I  must  not  come  back;  she  could  not 
be  an  object  of  curiosity — nor  allow  him  to  be. 
She  said  that  she  allowed  me  to  come  this  time  be- 
cause on  the  night  we  first  saw  her  she  had  stepped 
into  that  little  hall  to  keep  herself  from  freezing  in 
her  thin  clothes  as  she  was  making  her  way  home, 


50  The  Lady  of  the  Club. 

and  she  saw  that  I  was  earnest  in  what  I  said,  and 
she  stayed  to  listen — "  his  voice  broke  again. 

Just  then  the  drapery  was  drawn  back,  and  his 
wife,  superbly  robed,  swept  in,  bringing  a  bevy  of 
girls. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Barker,"  said  one,  gayly,  "  you  don't 
know  what  you  missed  to-night  by  deserting  our 
theatre  party;  it  was  all  so  real  — love  in  rags,  you 
know,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing;  only  I  really  don't 
like  to  see  quite  so  much  attention  paid  to  the 
'  Suffering  poor,'  with  a  big  S,  and  the  lower  classes 
generally.  I  think  the  stage  can  do  far  better  than 
that,  don't  you  ?  But  it  is  the  new  fad,  I  suppose, 
and  after  all  I  fancy  it  doesn't  do  much  harm,  only 
as  it  makes  that  sort  of  people  more  insufferably 
obtrusive  about  putting  their  ill-clad,  bad-smelling 
woes  before  the  rest  of  us.  What  a  beautiful 
vase  this  is,  Mrs.  Barker  !  May  I  take  it  to  the 
light  ?" 

"  Certainly,  my  dear,"  laughed  Mrs.  Barker;  "  and 
I  agree  with  you,  as  usual.  I  think  it  is  an  exqui- 
site vase — and  that  the  stage  is  becoming  demoral- 
ized. It  is  pandering  to  the  low  taste  for  represen- 
tations of  low  life.  I  confess  I  don't  like  it.  That 
sort  of  people  do  not  have  the  feelings  to  be  hurt — 
the  fine  sensibilities  and  emotions  attributed  to 
them.  Those  grow  up  in  refined  and  delicate  sur- 
roundings. That  is  what  I  often  tell  Roland  when 
he  insists  upon  making  himself  unhappy  over  some 
new  '  case '  of  destitution.  I  tell  him  to  send  them 
five  dollars  by  mail  and  not  to  worry  himself,  and  I 


The  Lady  of  the  Club.  5 1 

won't  allow  him  to  worry  me  with  his  Christie-street 
emotions." 

Barker  winced,  and  I  excused  myself  and  with- 
drew, speculating  on  certain  phases  of  delicacy  of 
feeling  and  fine  sensibility. 


III. 

I  did  not  see  Barker  again  for  nearly  three  weeks, 
when  one  night  my  bell  was  rung  with  unusual  vio- 
lence, and  I  he^rd  an  excited  voice  in  my  hall. 
"Be  quick,  John;  hurry,"  it  said,  "and  tell  the 
doctor  I  must  see  him  at  once.  Tell  him  it  is 
Roland  Barker." 

John  had  evidently  demurred  at  calling  me  at  so 
late  an  hour. 

"  All  right,  Barker;  I'll  be  down  in  a  moment,"  I 
called  from  above.  "  No,  come  up.  You  can  tell 
me  what  is  the  matter  while  I  dress.  Is  it  for  your- 
self ?  There,  go  in  that  side  room,  I  can  hear  you, 
and  I'll  be  dressed  in  a  moment." 

"  Hurry,  hurry,"  he  said,  excitedly,  "  I'll  tell  you 
on  the  way.  I  have  my  carriage.  Don't  wait  to 
order  yours,  only  hurry,  hurry,  hurry." 

Once  in  the  carriage,  I  said:  "  Barker,  you  are 
going  to  use  yourself  up,  this  way.  You  can't  keep 
this  sort  of  thing  up  much  longer.  You'd  better  go 
abroad." 

"  Drive  faster,"  he  called,  to  the  man  on  top. 
Then  to  me,  "  If  you  are  not  the  first  doctor  there, 


52  The  Lady  of  the  Club. 

there  will  be  a  dreadful  scene.  They  will  most 
likely  arrest  her  for  murder." 

"  Whom  ?"  said  I.  "  You  have  told  me  nothing, 
and  how  can  I  prevent  that  if  a  murder  has  been 
committed  ?" 

"  By  giving  her  a  regular  death  certificate,"  said 
he,  coolly,  "  saying  that  you  attended  the  case,  and 
that  it  was  a  natural  death.  I  depend  upon  you, 
Gordon;  it  would  be  simply  infamous  to  make  her 
suffer  any  more.  I  cannot  help  her  now,  but  you 
can,  you  must.  No  one  will  know  the  truth  but  us, 
and  afterwards  we  can  help  her — to  forget.  She  is 
not  an  old  woman;  there  may  be  something  in  life 
for  her  yet." 

"  Is  it  the  Lady  of  the  Club  ?"  I  asked.  We  had 
always  called  her  that.     "  What  has  she  done  ?" 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  it  is  the  '  Lady  of  the  Club,' 
and  she  has  poisoned  her  husband." 

"Good  God  !"  exclaimed  I;  "and  you  want  me 
to  give  her  a  regular  death  certificate  and  say  I  at- 
tended the  case  ?" 

"  You  must,"  he  said;  "  it  would  be  infamous  not 
to.  She  could  not  bear  it  any  longer.  She  found 
herself  breaking  down,  and  she  would  not  leave 
him  alive  without  her  care  and  love.  He  had  be- 
come almost  helpless,  except  when  short  violent 
spells  came  on.  These  left  him  exhausted.  He 
almost  killed  her  in  the  last  one.  Her  terror  was 
that  he  would  do  so  and  then  regain  his  reason — 
that  he  would  know  it  afterwards  and  perhaps  be 
dragged  through  the  courts.     She  had  been  work- 


The  Lady  of  the  Club.  53 

ing  in  a  chemist's  office,  it  seems,  when  she  was 
able  to  do  anything.  She  took  some  aconitine,  and 
to-night  she  put  everything  in  perfect  order,  gave 
him  the  best  supper  she  could,  got  him  to  bed,  and 
then — gave  him  that.  She  sent  for  me  and  told  me 
as  calmly  as — God  !  it  was  the  calm  of  absolute 
desperation.  She  sat  there  when  I  went  in,  holding 
his  poor  dead  hand  and  kissing  it  reverently.  She 
laid  it  down  and  told  me  what  I  tell  you.  There 
was  not  a  tear,  a  moan,  a  sigh.  She  said:  '  Here  is 
the  money  you  left — all  except  what  I  paid  for  his 
supper  to-night.  We  had  gotten  down  to  that  be- 
fore I  had  the  chance  to  steal  the  poison  or  the 
courage  to  give  it  to  him.  I  had  not  meant  to  use 
any  of  the  money;  the  rest  is  here.  I  would  like  it 
used — if  you  are  willing — to  bury  him  decently,  not 
in  the  Potter's  Field,  and  I  would  like — if  you  will 
take  the  trouble — to  have  it  done  absolutely  pri- 
vately. We  have  borne  enough.  I  cannot  bear  for 
even  his  ashes  to  be  subjected  to  any  further  hu- 
miliation.' " 

Roland  Barker  paused  to  command  himself. 
"  Of  course  I  promised  her,"  he  went  on,  after  a 
time.  "  She  does  not  realize  that  she  may  be  ar- 
rested and  have  his  poor  body  desecrated  to  find 
the  cause  of  death.  That  would  make  her  insane 
— even  if —  Drive  faster !"  he  called  out  again  to 
the  man  outside.  When  we  reached  the  house  he 
said:  "  Be  prepared  to  see  her  perfectly  calm.  It 
is  frightful  to  witness,  and  I  tremble  for  the  result 
later  on." 


54  The  Lady  of  the  Club. 

When  we  knocked  on  her  door  there  was  no  re- 
sponse. I  pushed  it  open  and  entered  first.  The 
room  was  empty.  We  went  to  the  inner  doer  and 
rapped  gently,  then  louder.  There  was  no  sound. 
Barker  opened  the  door,  and  then  stepped  quickly 
back  and  closed  it.  "  She  is  kneeling  there  by  his 
bed,"  he  said;  "write  the  certificate  here  and  give 
it  to  me.  Then  I  will  bring  an  undertaker  and — 
he  and  I  can  attend  to  everything  else.  I  did  want 
you  to  see  her.  I  think  you  should  give  her  some- 
thing to  make  her  sleep.  That  forced  calm  will 
make  her  lose  her  mind.  She  is  so  shattered  you 
would  not  recognize  her." 

"  Stay  here,  Barker,"  I  said;  "  I  want  to  see  her 
alone  for  a  moment.  I  will  tell  her  who  I  am  and 
that  you  brought  me — if  I  need  to." 

He  eyed  me  sharply,  but  I  stepped  hastily  into 
the  inner  room.  I  touched  the  shoulder  and  then 
the  forehead  of  the  kneeling  form.  It  did  not 
move.  "  Just  as  I  expected,"  I  muttered,  and  lift- 
ing the  lifeless  body  in  my  arms  I  laid  it  gently 
beside  her  husband.  In  one  hand  she  held  the  vial 
from  which  she  had  taken  the  last  drop  of  the 
deadly  drug,  and  clasped  in  the  other  her  husband's 
fingers.  She  had  been  dead  but  a  few  moments, 
and  both  she  and  her  husband  were  robed  for  the 
grave. 

When  I  returned  to  the  outer  room  I  found 
Barker  with  a  note  in  his  hand,  and  a  shocked  and 
horrified  look  on  his  face.  He  glanced  up  at  me 
through  his  tears. 


The  Lady  of  the  Club.  5  5 

"  We  were  too  late,"  he  said.  "  She  left  this 
note  for  me.  I  found  it  here  on  the  table.  She 
meant  to  do  it  all  along,  and  that  is  why  she  was 
so  calm  and  had  no  fears  for  herself." 

"  I  thought  so  when  you  told  me  what  she  had 
done,"  said  I. 

"  Did  you  ?  I  did  not  for  a  moment,  or  I  would 
have  stayed  and  tried  to  reason  her  out  of  it." 

"It  is  best  as  it  is,"  said  I,  "  and  you  could  not 
have  reasoned  her  out  of  it.  It  was  inevitable — 
after  the  rest.  Take  this  certificate  too;  you  will 
need  both." 

When  all  was  safely  over,  as  we  drove  home 
from  the  new  graves  two  days  later,  Barker  said: 
"  Is  this  the  solution  ?" 

I  did  not  reply. 

Presently  he  said:  "  To  the  dead,  who  cannot 
suffer,  we  can  be  kind  and  shield  them  even  from 
themselves.  Is  there  no  way  to  help  the  living  ? 
A  few  hundred  dollars,  two  short  years  ago,  would 
have  saved  all  this,  and  there  was  no  way  for  her 
to  get  it.  She  knew  it  all  then,  and  there  was  no 
help  !" 

"  Why  did  she  not,  in  such  a  case  as  that,  push 
back  her  pride  and  go  to  some  one  ?  There  must 
be  thousands  who  would  have  gladly  responded  to 
such  a  call  as  that,"  I  argued. 

He  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  for  a  moment 
and  shuddered.  At  last  he  said:  "She  did — she 
went  to  three  good  men,  men  who  had  known, 
been  friendly  with,  admired  her  and  her  husband. 
Two  of  them  are  worth  their  millions,  the  other 


56  The  Lady  of  the  Club. 

one  is  rich.  She  only  asked  to  borrow,  and  prom- 
ised to  repay  it  herself  if  she  had  to  live  and  work 
after  he  were  dead  to  do  it !" 

He  paused. 

"  You  do  not  mean  to  tell  me  that  they  refused 
— and  they  old  friends  and  rich?"  I  asked, 
amazed. 

"  I  mean  to  say  just  this:  they  one  and  all  made 
some  excuse;  they  did  not  let  her  have  it." 

"  She  told  them  what  the  doctors  said,  and  of 
her  fears  ?" 

"  She  did,"  he  answered,  sadly. 

"  And  yet  you  say  they  are  good  men  !"  I  ex- 
claimed, indignantly. 

"Good,  benevolent,  charitable,  every  one  of 
them,"  he  answered. 

"  Were  you  one  of  them,  Barker  ?"  I  asked,  after 
a  moment's  pause. 

"Thank  God,  no  !"  he  replied.  "But  perhaps 
in  some  other  case  I  have  done  the  same,  if  I  only 
knew  the  whole  story.  Those  men  do  not  know 
this  last,  you  must  remember." 

"  And  the  worst  of  it  is,  we  dare  not  tell  them," 
said  I,  as  we  parted. 

"  No,  we  dare  not,"  he  replied,  and  left  me 
standing  with  the  copy  of  the  burial  certificate  in 
my  hand. 

"  Natural  causes  ?"  I  said  to  myself,  looking  at 
it.  "  Died  of  natural  causes — the  brutality  and 
selfishness  of  man — and  poverty  with  love.  Nat- 
ural causes  !  Yes."  And  I  closed  my  office  door 
and  turned  out  the  light. 


TRnoer  protest 


"  This  is  my  story,  sir;  a  trifle,  indeed,  I  assure  you. 
Much  more,  perchance,  might  be  said;  but  I  hold  him,  of  all 

men,  most  lightly 
Who  swerves  from  the  truth  in  his  tale.'''' 

Bret  Harte. 


UNDER  PROTEST. 


When  the  new  family  moved  into,  and  we  were 
told  had  bought,  the  cottage  nearest  our  own,  we 
were  naturally  interested  in  finding  out  what  kind 
of  people  they  were,  and  whether  we  had  gained  or 
lost  by  the  change  of  neighbors. 

In  a  summer  place  like  this  it  makes  a  good  deal 
of  difference  just  what  kind  of  people  live  so  near 
to  you  that  when  you  are  sitting  on  your  veranda 
and  they  are  swinging  in  hammocks  on  theirs,  the 
most  of  the  conversation  is  common  property,  un- 
less you  whisper,  and  one  does  not  want  to  spend 
three  or  four  months  of  each  year  mentally  and 
verbally  tiptoeing  about  one's  own  premises.  Then, 
on  the  other  hand,  there  are  few  less  agreeable  situa- 
tions to  be  placed  in  than  to  be  forced  to  listen 
to  confidences  or  quarrels  with  which  you  have 
nothing  whatever  to  do,  or  else  be  deprived  of  the 
comforts  and  pleasures  of  out-door  life,  to  secure 
which  you  endure  so  many  other  annoyances. 

Our  new  neighbors  were,  therefore,  as  you  will 
admit,  of  the  utmost  interest  and  importance  to  us, 
and  I  was  naturally  very  much  pleased,  at  the  end 
of  the  first  week,  when  I  returned  one  day  from  a 

59 


6o  Under  Protest. 

fishing  party,  from  which  my  wife's  headache  had 
detained  her,  by  the  report  she  gave  me  of  their 
attitude  toward  each  other.  (From  her  glowing 
estimate,  I  drew  rose-colored  pictures  of  their  prob- 
able kindliness  and  generosity  toward  others.)  Up 
to  this  time  they  had  been  but  seldom  outside  of 
their  house,  and  we  had  not  gathered  much  infor- 
mation of  their  doings,  except  the  fact  that  a  good 
deal  of  nice  furniture  had  come,  and  they  appeared 
to  be  greatly  taken  up  in  beautifying  and  arranging 
their  cottage.  This  much  promised  well,  so  far  as 
it  went;  but  we  had  not  lived  to  our  time  of  life 
not  to  find  out,  long  ago,  that  the  most  exquisitely 
appointed  houses  sometimes  lack  the  one  essential 
feature;  that  is,  ladies  and  gentlemen  to  occupy 
them. 

"  They  are  lovely  !"  said  my  wife,  the  moment  I 
entered  the  door,  before  I  had  been  able  to  deposit 
my  fishing-tackle  and  ask  after  her  headache. 
"They  are  lovely;  at  least  he  is,"  she  amended. 
"I  am  sure  we  shall  be  pleased  with  them;  or,  at 
least,  with  him.  A  man  as  careful  of,  and  attentive 
to,  his  wife  as  he  is  can't  help  being  an  agreeable 
neighbor." 

"  Good  !"  said  I.  "  How  did  you  find  out  ? 
And  how  is  your  headache  ? — Had  a  disgusting 
time  fishing.  Glad  you  did  not  go.  Sun  was  hot; 
breeze  was  hot;  boatman's  temper  was  a  hundred 
and  twenty  in  the  shade;  bait  wouldn't  stay  on  the 
hooks,  and  there  weren't  any  fish  any  way.  But 
how  did  you  say  your  head  is  ?" 


Under  Protest.  61 

"  My  head?  "  said  my  wife,  with  that  retrospective 
tone  women  have,  which  seemed  to  indicate  that  if 
she  had  ever  had  a  head,  and  if  her  head  had  ever 
ached,  and  if  headache  was  a  matter  of  sufficient 
importance  to  remember,  in  all  human  probability 
it  had  recovered  in  due  time.  "  My  head  ?  Oh, 
yes — Oh,  it  is  all  right;  but  you  really  never  did 
see  any  one  so  tractable  as  that  man.  And  adapt- 
able !  Why,  it  is  a  perfect  wonder.  Of  course  I 
had  no  business  to  look  or  listen;  but  I  did.  I 
just  couldn't  help  it.  The  fact  is,  I  thought  they 
were  quarrelling  at  first,  and  I  almost  fainted.  I 
said  to  myself,  '  If  they  are  that  kind  of  people  we 
will  sell  out.  I  will  not  live  under  the  constant 
drippings  of  ill-temper.'  Quarrelling  ought  to  be  a 
penitentiary  offence;  that  is,  I  mean  the  bicker- 
ings and  naggings  most  people  dignify  by  that 
name.  I  could  endure  a  good,  square,  stand-up 
and  knock  down  quarrel,  that  had  some  character 
to  it;  but  the  eternal  differences,  often  expressed 
by  the  tones  of  voice  only,  I  can't  stand."  I  smiled 
an  emphatic  assent,  and  my  wife  went  on. 

"  Well,  I  must  confess  his  tones  of  voice  are,  at 
times,  against  him;  but  I'm  not  sure  that  it  is  not 
due  to  the  distance.  All  of  his  tones  may  not  carry 
this  far.  I'm  sure  they  don't,  for  when  I  first  heard 
him,  and  made  up  my  mind  that  it  was  a  horrid, 
common,  plebeian  little  row,  I  went  to  the  west 
bedroom  window — you  know  it  looks  directly  into 
their  kitchen — and  what  do  you  suppose  I  saw  ?" 

The  question  was  so  sudden  and  wholly  unex- 


62  Under  Protest. 

pected,  and  my  mental  apparatus  was  so  taken  up 
with  the  story  that  I  found  myself  with  no  ideas 
whatever  on  the  subject.  Indeed  I  do  not  believe 
that  my  wife  wanted  me  to  guess  what  she  saw, 
half  so  much  as  she  wanted  breath;  but  I  gave  the 
only  reply  which  the  circumstances  appeared  to 
admit  of,  and  which,  I  was  pleased  to  see,  in  spite 
of  its  seeming  inadequacy,  was  as  perfectly  satis- 
factory to  the  blessed  little  woman  as  if  it  had  been 
made  to  order  and  proven  a  perfect  fit. 

"  I  can't  imagine,"  said  I. 

"  Of  course  you  can't,"  she  replied,  pushing  my 
crossed  legs  into  position,  and  seating  herself  on  my 
knees. 

"  Of  course  you  can't.  A  man  couldn't.  Well, 
it  seems  their  servant  left  last  night,  and  that 
blessed  man  was  washing  the  dishes  this  morning. 
The  difference  of  opinion  had  been  over  which  one 
of  them  should  do  it." 

"Why,  the  confounded  brute!"  said  I.  "  He  is  a 
good  deal  better  able  to  do  it  than  she  is.  She 
looks  sick,  and  so  long  as  he  has  no  business 
to  attend  to  down  here,  he  has  as  much  time  as  she 
and  a  good  deal  more  strength  to  do  that  kind  of 
work." 

"  Well,  I  just  knew  you'd  look  at  it  that  way,"  said 
my  wife,  with  an  inflection  of  pride  and  admiration 
which  indicated  that  I  had  made  a  ten  strike 
of  some  kind,  of  which  few  men — and  not  many 
women — would  be  capable. 

"But  that  was  not  it  at  all,"  continued  she. 


Under  Protest.  63 

I  began  laboriously  to  readjust  my  mental  moor- 
ings to  this  seemingly  complicated  situation,  and 
was  on  the  verge  of  wondering  why  my  wife  was  so 
pleased  with  me  for  simply  making  a  mistake,  when 
she  began  again,  after  giving  me  a  little  pat  of 
unqualified  satisfaction  and  sympathy. 

"They  both  wanted  to  do  it.  She  said  she 
wasn't  a  bit  tired  and  could  do  it  alone  just  as  well 
as  not,  and  he'd  break  the  glasses  with  his  funny, 
great,  big  fingers;  and  he  said  he'd  be  careful  not 
to  break  anything,  and  that  the  dish-water  would 
spoil  her  hands." 

"  Good,"  said  I,  "  I  shall  like  the  fellow.     I " 

"  Of  course  you  will,"  my  wife  broke  in,  enthusi- 
astically ;  "  but  that  isn't  all.  I  went  to  sleep  after 
that,  and  later  on  was  awakened  by  a  loud — and 
as  I  thought  at  the  time — a  very  angry  voice.  I 
went  to  the  window  again  only  to  see  a  laughing 
scuffle  between  them  over  the  potato-knife.  She 
wanted  to  scrape  them  and  he  wanted  to  scrape 
them.  Of  course  he  got  the  knife,  and  it  really  did 
look  too  comical  to  see  him  work  with  those  little 
bulbs.  He  put  his  whole  mind  on  them,  and  he 
didn't  catch  her  picking  over  the  berries  until  she 
was  nearly  done.  Then  he  scolded  again.  He 
said  he  did  the  potatoes  to  keep  her  from  getting 
her  thumb  and  forefinger  black,  and  here  she  was 
with  her  whole  hand  covered  with  berry  stain.  He 
seemed  really  vexed,  and  I  must  say  his  voice 
doesn't  carry  this  far  as  if  he  was  half  as  nice  as  he 
is.     I   think  there  ought  to  be  a  chair  of  voices 


64  Under  Protest. 

attached  to  every  school-house — so  to  speak — and 
the  result  of  the  training  made  one  of  the  tests  of 
admission  to  the  colleges  of  the  country.  Don't 
you?" 

Again  I  was  wholly  unprepared  for  her  sudden 
question,  and  was  only  slowly  clambering  around 
the  idea  she  had  suggested,  so  I  said — somewhat 
irrelevantly,  no  doubt — "It  may  be." 

She  looked  at  me  for  a  moment  without  speak- 
ing, and  then  said,  as  she  got  up  and  crossed  the 
room:  "You  didn't  hear  a  word  I  said,  and  you 
don't  begin  to  appreciate  that  man  anyway." 

"  I  did  hear  you,  dear,"  I  protested  ;  "  I  was  lis- 
tening as  hard  as  I  could — and  awfully  interested — 
but  a  fellow  can't  skip  along  at  that  rate  and  have 
well-matured  views  on  tap  without  a  moment's 
warning.  You've  got  to  be  like  the  noble  ladies  in 
the  '  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,'  '  and  give  me  heart 
and  give  me  time.'  Now  they  understood  men. 
We're  slow." 

She  laughed  and  tied  the  last  pink  bow  in 
the  lace  of  a  coquettish  little  white  gown  and 
dragged  me  out  on  the  veranda. 

Our  new  neighbors  were  out  ahead  of  us. 

"I  don't  think  so  at  all,  Margaret,"  we  heard 
him  say,  as  we  took  our  chairs  near  the  edge  of  the 
porch  to  catch  any  stray  breeze  that  might  be 
wandering  our  way. 

"Sh — ,"  we  heard  her  say  ;  "  don't  talk  so  loud. 
They  will  think  you  are  going  to  scalp  me." 

"  Oh,  don't  bother  about  the  neighbors  ;  let  'em 


Under  Protest.  65 

hear,"  said  he,  "  let  'em  think.  Who  cares  ?  If 
they  haven't  got  anything  better  to  do  than  sit 
around  and  think,  they'd  better  move  away  from 
our  neighborhood." 

"  Sh — ,"  said  she  again,  looking  at  him  with 
a  good  deal  of  emphasis  in  her  eyes. 

"Well,  it  is  too  bad,  isn't  it  ?"  acquiesced  he,  in  a 
much  lower  voice,  and  one  from  which  every  vestige 
of  the  tone  of  protest  had  vanished. 

"  It  is  too  bad  that  these  summer  cottages  are 
built  so  close  together  that  you  can't  tie  your  shoes 
without  being  overheard  by  the  folks  next  door  ?  It 
makes  me  nervous.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  to  sit  up 
straight  all  the  time  and  smile  like  a  crocodile,  or 
else  run  the  risk  of  being  misunderstood." 

"  It.  is  trying,  dear,"  she  said,  "  and  destroys  a 
good  deal  of  the  comfort  and  ease  of  one's  outing." 

"  Nothing  of  the  kind,"  began  he,  so  explosively 
as  to  make  my  wife  jump. 

"  Sh — ,"  whispered  the  lady  next  door,  but  he 
went  on. 

"  Nothing  of  the  kind.  I  don't  let  it  bother  me 
in  the  least.  They  can  attend  to  their  own  affairs, 
and  I " 


M 


Sh — ,"  said  his  wife  ;  "  suppose  we  walk  down 
to  the  beach."     She  began  to  adjust  her  wrap. 

"  It  is  a  good  deal  more  comfortable  here," 
he  protested,  "  and  besides  I'm  tired." 

"  So  you  are,  of  course,"  she  said,  regretfully. 
"  I  forgot.  Such  unusual  work  for  a  man  would 
tire  him;"  and  she  loosened  the  lace  veil  she 
had  drawn  over  her  head  and  reseated  herself. 


66  Under  Protest. 

"  Well,  are  you  ready  ?"  questioned  he,  clapping 
on  his  hat  and  suddenly  starting  down  the  steps. 

"  Ready  for  what  ?"  asked  she,  in  surprise. 

"  The  deuce,  Margaret.  I  thought  you  said 
that  you  were  going  to  the  beach  !" 

She  got  up,  readjusted  her  veil,  took  her  wrap 
on  her  arm,  and  ran  lightly  after  him. 

"  I  wonder  if  I  shall  need  this  wrap  ?"  she  said 
as  she  passed  our  gate. 

"  Heavens  !  no,"  he  replied,  "  and  it  will  heat  you 
all  up  to  carry  it.  Here,  give  it  to  me.  I  don't 
see  what  on  earth  you  brought  it  for.  I'm 
certainly  hot  enough  without  loading  me  up  with 
this." 

"  I  will  carry  it,"  she  said,  cheerfully  ;  "  I  don't 
feel  the  heat  on  my  arm  as  you  do — or  I'll  run 
back  and  leave  it  on  the  porch.  You  walk  slowly. 
I  can  easily  catch  up." 

She  started;  but  he  took  the  shawl  from  her, 
threw  it  lightly  over  his  shoulder,  and,  pulling 
her  hand  through  his  arm,  said  gayly,  and  in 
the  most  compliant  tone:  "It  isn't  very  warm. 
I  won't  notice  this  little  thing  and,  besides,  you'll 
need  it  down  there,  as  like  as  not." 

When  they  were  out  of  hearing  my  wife  drew  a 
long  breath  and  said:  "  I  wonder  if  we  ever 
sound  like  that  to  other  people  ? — and  yet,  they 
seem  to  be  devoted  to  each  other,"  she  added 
hastily. 

"  They  are,  no  doubt,"  said  I,  "  only  he  appears 
to  be  a  chronic  kicker." 


Under  Protest.  6j 

"A  comic  what?"  said  my  wife,  in  so  loud 
a  tone  that  I  involuntarily  exclaimed  "  Sh — !" 

We  both  laughed.  Then  she  said  :  "  But  really, 
dear,  I  didn't  understand  what  you  said  he  was. 
There  doesn't  seem  to  me  to  be  anything  comic 
about  him,  though.     And " 

"  Comic !  Well,  I  should  think  not,"  said  I. 
"  I  should  think  it  would  be  anything  but  comic  to 
that  little  woman  to  go  through  that  sort  of  thing 
every  time  she  opened  her  mouth.  What  I  said 
was  that  he  seems  to  be  a  chronic  kicker,  and 
I  might  add — with  some  show  of  fairness — that  he 
impresses  me  as  the  champion  of  Kicktown  at 
that." 

"  Sh — ,"  laughed  my  wife,  "  they're  coming  back." 

"  I  don't  agree  with  you  at  all.  There  is  no  need 
to  do  anything  of  the  kind,"  were  the  first  words  we 
heard  from  a  somewhat  distant  couple,  and  my 
wife  concluded  that  our  new  neighbors  were  not 
very  far  off.  "  It  would  be  no  end  of  trouble  for 
you.  You'd  get  all  tired  out ;  and  besides,  what 
do  we  owe  to  the  Joneses  that  makes  it  necessary 
for  you  to  disturb  all  our  little  comforts  to  ask  them 
down  here  ?"  he  continued.  We  could  not  hear 
her  reply;  but  his  protest  and  evident  deep  dis- 
satisfaction with  the  whole  scheme  went  bravely 
on. 

She  passed  into  the  house  and  left  him  on  the 
steps.  When  she  came  out  a  few  moments  later  he 
said,  sweetly:  "  As  I  was  just  saying,  it  will  be  quite 
a  diversion  for  you  to  see  the  girls,  and  I'd  enjoy 


68  Under  Protest. 

the  old  man  hugely.  He's  a  jolly  old  coon ;  and 
then  we  owe  it  to  them  after  all  they  did  for 
you." 

"  What  girls  ?  What  old  man  is  a  jolly  coon  ?" 
asked  she,  in  an  utterly  bewildered  tone. 

"  Margaret !  The  Joneses,  of  course.  Whom 
have  we  been  talking  about  for  the  last  half-hour  ?" 
exploded  he. 

"  Oh,"  said  she,  having  evidently  quite  given 
over  asking  the  Joneses,  and  become  occupied 
with  other  thoughts,  "  I  thought  the  idea  did  not 
please  you.  But  I'm  so  glad.  It  will  do  you  good 
to  have  him  here,  and  I  shall  be  delighted." 

"Do  me  good  !"  exploded  he.  "  Do  me  good! 
Tiresome  old  bore,  if  there  ever  was  one.  Women 
are  queer  fish  to  deal  with,  but  I'm  sure  I  don't 
care  whom  you  invite  here." 

Our  neighbors  withdrew  for  the  night  and  we 
sighed  with  relief.  About  two  o'clock  my  wife 
touched  me  to  find  if  I  was  asleep.  The  move- 
ment was  so  stealthy  that  I  inferred  at  once  that 
there  were  burglars  in  the  house.  I  was  wide 
awake  in  an  instant. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  I  whispered. 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  you're  awake.  I  want  to  know 
what  that  was  you  called  the  man  next  door.  I 
forgot  what  it  was,  and  I  couldn't  sleep  for  trying 
to  remember." 

I  laughed.  "  I  believe  I  said  that  he  impressed 
me  as  one  so  addicted  to  the  reprehensible  habit 
of  protest — on  general  principles,  as  it  were — that 


Under  Protest.  69, 

it  had  now  become  the  normal  condition  of  his 
mental  constitution." 

"  You  didn't  say  any  such  thing,"  said  she. 
"You—" 

"  I  believe  that  at  the  time  of  which  you  speak 
I  allowed  myself  to  be  guilty  of  a  habit  you  do  not 
wholly  admire;  but  I  really  had  no  idea  it  would 
keep  you  awake.  I  used  slang.  I  said  that  he  was 
a  chronic  kicker,  and — " 

"  That's  it !  That's  it !"  exclaimed  she,  with 
deep  satisfaction.  "  He's  a  '  chronic  kicker.'  Well, 
if  you'll  believe  me,  he  hasn't  stopped  kicking 
long  enough  to  say  his  prayers  decently  since  we 
went  to  bed.  First  about  what  time  it  was  ;  then 
about  which  room  they'd  sleep  in  ;  then  there  was 
too  much  cover ;  then  the  windows  were  wrong  ; 
then — oh,  heavens  ! — I  wonder  if  he  kicks  in  his 
sleep  ?  He  always  comes  around  to  reason  in 
time;  but  if  there  was  ever  anything  more  madden- 
ing to  meet  than  that  constant  wall  of  protest — 
for  the  sake  of  protest — I  don't  know  what  it  could 
be." 

"  Nor — I,"  said  I,  half  asleep. 

Presently  her  hand  grasped  mine  vigorously,  and 
I  sprang  up  startled,  for  I  had  been  sound  asleep 
again.  "  What's  the  matter  ?"  I  said,  in  a  loud 
tone. 

"  Sh — ,"  whispered  my  wife.  "  Don't  speak  in 
that  tone.  I'd  rather  people  would  think  you 
stayed  out  nights,  than  to  suppose  you  stayed  at 
home  and  nagged  me.     He's  at  it  again.     I'd  most 


yo  Under  Protest. 

gone  to  sleep  and  his  voice  nearly  scared  the  life 
out  of  me.  She  wanted  to  close  the  window.  He 
objected,  of  course;  said  he'd  smother — sh — " 

Just  then  we  heard  our  neighbor's  wife  ask 
sleepily:  "  What  are  you  doing,  dear?" 

"  Closing  this  detestable  window.  Lets  in  too 
much  salt  air.  'Fraid  you'll  get  chilled.  I  am. 
Where's  another  blanket  ?" 

The  window  went  down  with  a  bang,  and  we 
heard  no  more  of  our  neighbors  that  night.  But 
the  next  morning  the  same  thing  began  again,  and 
I  do  not  believe  that  during  that  entire  summer  he 
ever  agreed  with  his  wife  the  first  time  she  spoke, 
nor  failed  to  come  around  to  her  view  after  he 
took  time  to  think  it  over.  I  remember  when  I 
was  introduced  to  him,  a  week  later,  his  wife 
said:  "  This  is  our  nearest  neighbor,  you  know, 
Thomas,  and — " 

"  No,  he  isn't,  Margaret;  the  people  back  of  us 
are  nearer,"  he  said.  Then  to  me:  "Pleased  to 
meet  you.  I  believe  our  wives  have  become  quite 
good  friends.  I'm  very  glad  for  Margaret's  sake, 
too.  It's  dull  for  her  with  only  an  old  fellow  like 
me  to  entertain  her,  and  she  not  very  well.  And 
then,  as  she  says,  you  are  our  nearest  neighbor, 
and  we  really  ought  not  to  be  too  ceremonious  at 
such  a  place  as  this." 

"  I  thought,  Thomas,"  suggested  his  wife,  "  that 
you  said  one  could  not  be  too  particular.  Why, 
you  quite  blustered  when  I  first  told  you  I  had 
made  advances  to  some  of  the  other — " 


Under  Protest.  yi 

"  Nonsense  !  I  did  nothing  of  the  kind,"  broke 
in  he.  "  What  on  earth  ever  put  such  an  idea  into 
your  head,  Margaret  ?  You  know  I  always  say  that 
without  pleasant  neighbors,  and  friendly  relations 
with  them,  a  summer  cottage  is  no  place  for  a  white 
man  to  live." 

My  wife  hastened  to  change  the  subject.  Noth- 
ing on  earth  is  more  distasteful  to  her  than  a  fam- 
ily contest,  of  even  a  very  mild  type,  especially 
when  the  tones  of  voice  seem  to  express  more  of 
indignation  and  a  desire  to  override,  than  a  mere 
difference  of  opinion.  She  thought  the  surf  a  safe 
subject. 

"  Was  not  the  water  lovely  to-day  ?  You  were  in, 
I  suppose  ?"  she  inquired  of  our  neighbor's  wife. 

"  Yes,  we  were  in,"  she  began,  enthusiastically. 
"  It  was  perfect  and — " 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  call  perfect,"  broke  in 
he,  "  I  called  it  beastly.  It  was  so  cold  I  felt  like 
a  frog  when  I  got  out,  and  you  looked  half  frozen. 
The  fact  is,  this  is  too  far  north  to  bathe  for  pleas- 
ure in  the  surf.  It  may  be  good  for  one's  health, 
but  it  is  anything  but  pleasant.  Now  at  Old  Point 
Comfort  it  is  different.     I  like  it  there." 

"  Why,  James,"  said  his  wife,  "  I  thought  you 
preferred  this  because  of  the  more  bracing  and  ex- 
hilarating effect." 

After  a  little  more  objection,  which  he  seemed 
to  think  firmly  established  his  independence,  he 
ended  his  remarks  thus: 

"  Of  course,  as  you  say,  it  is  more  bracing.    Yes, 


72  Under  Protest. 

that's  a  fact,  Margaret.  I  couldn't  help  noticing 
when  I  came  out  this  morning  that  I  felt  like  a 
new  man,  and  you — why,  'pon  my  word,  you  looked 
as  bright  and  rosy  as  a  girl  of  sixteen.  Oh,  the 
surf  here  is  great.  It  really  is.  I  like  it  ;  don't 
you?" 

This  last  he  had  addressed  to  me.  I  was  so  oc- 
cupied in  a  study  of,  and  so  astonished  by,  the 
facility  with  which  he  took  his  mental  flops,  after 
enjoying  his  little  "  kick,"  that  I  was  taken  off  my 
feet  by  his  sudden  appeal  to  me,  and  was  quite  at 
a  loss  for  a  reply  which  would  do  justice  to  the  oc- 
casion, and  at  the  same  time  put  a  stop  to  the 
contest  between  husband  and  wife. 

But,  as  usual,  my  wife  hastened  to  my  rescue  and 
covered  my  confusion  by  her  gay  little  laugh  and 
explanation. 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha,"  she  laughed,  "  you  have  caught 
my  husband  napping  already.  I  know  exactly 
where  he  was.  He  was  lumbering  along  through 
an  elaborate  speculation  on,  and  a  comparison  of, 
the  relative  merits  of — "  here  she  began  telling 
them  off  on  her  fingers  to  the  great  amusement  of 
our  neighbors — "  first,  fresh  and  salt  water  bathing; 
second,  the  method,  time,  place,  and  condition 
of  each  as  affected  by  the  moon,  stars,  and  Gulf 
Stream.  He  was,  most  likely,  climbing  over  Nor- 
way with  a  thermometer,  or  poking  a  test-tube  of 
some  kind  into  the  semi-liquefaction  which  passes 
itself  off  as  water  to  those  unfortunates  who  are 
stranded  along  the  shores  of  the  Mississippi.     Just 


Under  Protest.  73 

wait;  one  of  these  days  he  will  get  down  to  our 
discussion  and  he'll  agree  with  us  when  he  gets 
there.     But  don't  hurry  him." 

We  all  joined  in  the  laugh  at  my  expense;  and  I 
remarked  that  I  had  served  so  long  as  a  target  for 
my  wife's  fun  that  even  if  I  could  skip  around, 
mentally,  at  as  lively  a  rate  as  she  seemed  to  ex- 
pect, I  would  pretend  that  I  couldn't,  in  order  not 
to  deprive  her  of  her  chief  source  of  amusement. 
At  this  point  our  neighbor's  new  cook  came  to  the 
edge  of  their  porch  and  asked  her  mistress  if  she 
might  speak  to  her  for  a  moment.     She  arose  to  go. 

"  Oh,  thunder,  Margaret,  I  hope  you  don't  in- 
tend to  allow  that  worthless  girl  to  call  you  home 
every  time  you  go  any  place.  Tell  her  to  wait.  It 
can't  be  much  she  wants,"'  said  our  neighbor. 

"  Jane,"  said  his  wife  sweetly,  reseating  herself, 
"  you  can  wait  until  I  come  home.  It  won't  be 
long." 

"  I  wonder  if  you'd  better  do  that,  Margaret," 
said  he,  just  as  our  wives  had  begun  to  discuss 
something  relative  to  housekeeping.  "  Jane  is  a 
good  girl,  and  she  wouldn't  call  you  if  it  were  not 
something  important,  Don't  you  think  we  had 
better  go  at  once?" 

"  I  did  think  so."  said  she.  and  bidding  us  good- 
night our  neighbors  crossed  the  lawn  and  re-en- 
tered their  own  door  and  closed  it  for  the  night. 

After  a  long  pause  my  wife  said,  in  a  stage 
whisper:  "  I  suppose  it  is  his  way  of  showing  that 
he  is  '  boss,'  as  the  boys  say — the  final  appeal  in  his 


74  Under  Protest. 

own  household — his  idea  of  the  dignity  of  the  mas- 
culine prerogative." 

A  sudden  stop.  I  thought  she  expected  me  to 
say  something,  so  I  began: 

I  don't  know.  I  doubt  it.  It  looks  to  me  like 
a  case  of — " 

"  Don't !  don't !"  exclaimed  my  wife,  in  tragic 
accents,  "  oh,  don't  catch  it.  I  really  couldn't  live 
with  a  chronic  objector.  Anything  else.  I  really 
believe  I  could  stand  any  other  phase  of  bullying 
better  than  that— to  feel  that  at  any  minute  I  am 
liable  to  run  against  a  solid  wall  of  '  I  don't  agree 
with  yous!'  If  it  were  real  I  wouldn't  mind  it  so 
much;  but  to  hear  that  man  '  kick,'  as  you  say, 
just  for  the  sake  of  asserting  himself,  and  then 
come  around  as  he  does,  is  perfectly  maddening. 
The  very  first  symptom  I  see  in  you  I  shall  look 
upon  it  as  a  danger  signal — I'll  move." 

At  that  moment,  before  our  quiet  little  laugh,  at 
their  expense,  had  died  away,  there  floated  out 
from  the  bedroom  window  of  our  neighbors'  cot- 
tage, this  refrain: 

"  Well,  goodness  knows,  Margaret,  /  didn't  want 
to  come  home.  I  knew  it  was  all  perfect  nonsense. 
If  you—" 

My  wife  suddenly  arose,  took  me  by  the  hand 
and  said  quite  seriously:  "  Come  in  the  house, 
dear.  This  atmosphere  is  too  unwholesome  to  en- 
dure any  longer." 

The  next  day  she  said  to  me,  "  Let's  go  to  Old 
Point  Comfort  next  year." 


Under  Protest,  75 

"  All  right,"  said  I;  "but  what  shall  we  do  with 
the  cottage  ?  You  know  we  hold  the  lease  for  an- 
other year,  with  the  '  refusal '  to  buy." 

"  Rent  it  to  your  worst  enemy,  or,  better  still, 
get  him  to  buy  it.  Just  think  of  the  exquisite  re- 
venge you  could  take  that  way.  Twenty-four 
hours  every  day,  for  four  long  months  each  year,  to 
know  that  you  had  him  planted  next  door  to  a 
'chronic  kicker.'  Or  don't  you  hate  anybody  bad 
enough  for  that?"  and  my  wife  actually  shuddered. 

"I  don't  believe  I  do, dear,"  said  I;  "  but  I'll  do 
my  level  best  to  rent  it  to  him  for  one  season.  You 
know  I  wouldn't  care  to  murder  him;  if  he's  hope- 
lessly maimed  I'll  be  satisfied." 

We  both  laughed;  but  the  next  dav  I  advertised 
the  lease,  ot  a  cottage  for  sale  very  cneap,  and  gave 
as  a  reason  my  desire  to  go  where  there  were  fewer 
people.  I  think  this  will  catch  my  enemy.  He 
likes  a  crowd,  and  he'd  enjoy  nothing  better  than 
to  feel  that  I  was  forced  to  pay  half  of  his  rent. 
So  I  marked  the  paper  and  sent  it  to  him,  and  con- 
fidently await  the  result. 


jfor  tbe  prosecution. 


"  So  deeply  inherent  is  it  in  this  life  of  ours  tJzat  men  have  to 
suffer  for  each  other's  sins,  so  inevitably  diffusive  is  human  suffer- 
ing, that  even  Justice  makes  its  victims,  and  we  can  conceive  no 
retribution  that  does  not  spread  beyond  its  mark  in  pulsations  of 
unmerited  pain." — George  Eliot. 


FOR   THE  PROSECUTION. 


Shortly  Mter  Fred  Mathews  began  the  practice 
of  law  he  was  elected  to  the  office  of  Prosecuting 
Attorney  in  the  Western  town  to  which  he  had 
gone  when  first  admitted  to  the  bar. 

Of  course,  every  law  student  becomes  familiar 
with  the  jests  and  gibes  cast  at  the  members  of  the 
profession  as  men  who  are  peculiarly  economical  of 
the  truth.  He  smiles  with  those  who  hint  that  a 
lawyer  is  always  lavish  of  advice  that  leads  to  liti- 
gation. 

That  students  of  Blackstone  and  Coke  hear  much 
merrymaking  over  and  some  serious  criticism  of 
the  quibbles  to  which  the  best  of  them  are  sup- 
posed to  resort — of  making  little  of  real  evidence 
and  much  of  trivialities — goes  without  saying. 
Nor  are  they  unaware  of  the  fact — alas!  sometimes 
too  well  founded  upon  strong  evidence — that  the 
general  public  appears  to  be  convinced  that  laws 
are  made  for  the  purpose  of  shielding  the  rich  and 
oppressing  the  poor  or  unfortunate. 

No  student   of   average   ability  enters   practice 

79 


8o  For  the  Prosecution. 

uninformed  that  there  is  a  widespread  belief  that  a 
man  of  social  position  or  financial  power  has  little 
to  fear  as  a  result  of  his  misdeeds,  while  his  less 
fortunate  neighbor  could  not  hope  to  escape  the 
worst  legal  consequences  of  his  most  trivial  lapse 
from  rectitude. 

Fred  Mathews  had  made  up  his  mind — as  many 
a  young  fellow  had  done  before  him — that  he 
would  do  everything  in  his  power  to  hold  the 
scales  of  justice  level. 

He  determined  that  such  ability  as  he  possessed 
should  be  used  for  the  benefit  of  society,  and  that 
neither  bribe  nor  threat  should  ever  entice  him  from 
the  strict  performance  of  his  duty  to  the  profes- 
sion which  he  had  entered.  He  would  never  ac- 
cept a  case  in  which  he  did  not  honestly  believe. 
No  man's  money  should  buy  him  and  no  man's 
wrath  intimidate.  In  short,  he  intended  to  be  a 
lawyer  with  a  conscience  as  well  as  a  man  of  in- 
tegrity, no  matter  what  the  result  might  be. 

He  made  so  good  a  beginning  in  the  first  two 
years  of  his  practice  that  it  was  at  the  end  of  the 
third,  when  he  found  himself  holding  the  office  of 
Prosecuting  Attorney,  with  a  record  clean,  and  fair 
sailing  ahead,  that  a  piece  of  news  which  came  to 
him  caused  him  to  doubt  himself  for  the  first  time. 

The  shock  of  that  doubt  thrilled  every  fibre  in 
his  nature,  for  with  it  came  the  one  fear  that 
is  terrible  to  a  brave  mind  which  is  aroused  for  the 
first  time  to  its  own  possibilities — the  fear  to  trust 
itself — the  dread  lest  it  betray  its  own  higher  na- 


For  the  Prosecution.  8 1 

ture  under  the  pressure  of  old  habits  of  thought  or 
new  social  problems. 

Right  and  wrong  had  always  seemed  to  him  to 
have  the  most  decided  and  clear-cut  outlines.  He 
had  never  thought  of  himself  as  standing  before 
them  unable  to  distinguish  their  boundaries.  He 
had  felt  that  he  could  answer  bravely  enough  the 
question:  "  What  would  you  do  if  required  to 
choose  between  honor  and  dishonor  ?'"  It  was  a 
strange  thing  to  him  that  his  present  perplexity 
should  grow  out  of  a  simple  burglary  case.  There 
did  not  appear  to  him,  at  first,  to  be  more  than  one 
side  to  such  a  case.  He  was  the  Prosecuting  Attor- 
ney. A  store  had  been  robbed.  Among  other 
things  a  sealskin  sacque  was  taken.  By  means  of 
this  cloak  the  burglary  had  been  traced — it  was 
claimed— to  a  certain  young  man  high  in  social  life. 
The  duties  of  his  office  had  led  the  State's  attorney 
to  prosecute  the  investigation  with  his  usual  vigor 
and  impartiality  until  he  had  succeeded  beyond  his 
fairest  hopes.  Indeed,  the  chain  of  evidence  now 
in  his  possession  was  so  strong  and  complete  that 
he — for  the  first  time  in  his  career— recognized  that 
he  shrank  from  using  the  testimony  at  his  command. 

He  felt  that  it  was  his  duty  to  cause  to  be  appre- 
hended a  young  man  who  had  up  to  the  present  time 
borne  a  spotless  reputation;  who  had  been  a  fellow 
student  at  college;  whose  social  position  was  that 
of  a  leader,  and  who  was  soon  to  marry  one  of  the 
most  charming  girls  in  the  town.  The  situation 
was  painful,  but  Fred  Mathews  felt  that  his  own 


82  For  the  Prosecution. 

honor  was  at  stake  quite  as  truly  as  was  that  of  his 
old  schoolfellow.  Here  was  his  first  opportunity 
to  show  that  he  held  his  duty  above  his  desires. 
Here  was  the  first  case  in  which  social  influence 
and  financial  power  were  on  the  side  of  a  criminal 
whom  it  was  his  duty  to  prosecute  to  the  end. 

His  professional  pride,  as  well  as  his  honor,  was 
enlisted;  for  this  was  the  third  burglary  which  had 
been  committed  recently,  and  so  far  the  "  gang" — 
as  the  newspapers  assumed  and  the  police  believed 
the  offenders  to  be— had  not  been  caught. 

Fred  Mathews  now  thought  he  had  every  reason 
to  believe  that  the  same  hand  had  executed  all 
three  crimes  and  that  th  e  recklessness  of  the  last — 
the  almost  wanton  defiance  of  perfectly  natural 
means  of  precaution  and  concealment — had  led  to 
the  discovery  of  this  burglar  in  high  life. 

After  long  deliberation,  however,  the  young 
prosecutor  made  up  his  mind  that  he  would  so  far 
compromise  with  his  conscience  as  to  make  a  per- 
sonal, private  call  upon  the  young  man  who  was 
under  suspicion  and  boldly  accuse  him  of  the 
theft  of  the  tell-tale  cloak  that  had  been  traced  to 
him,  and  take  the  consequences. 

He  was  well  aware  that  in  case  this  course  should 
lead  to  the  escape  of  the  criminal  he  would  be 
compelled  to  bear  the  abuse  and  suspicion  which 
would  surely  follow,  for  the  evidence  had  passed 
through  other  hands  than  his  own. 

He  knew  that  he  was  taking  a  method  which 
would  be  called  in  question,  and  that  he  would  not 


For  the  Prosecution,  83 

take  it  if  the  suspected  man  lived  in  a  less  fashion- 
able street  or  had  the  misfortune  to  be  low  born. 

All  this  he  knew  quite  well,  and  still  he  argued 
to  himself  that  it  was  the  right  thing  for  him  to  do, 
or  at  least  that  it  was  the  best  possible  under  the 
circumstances,  and  that  after  giving  Walter  Banks 
a  private  chance  to  clear  himself — if  such  a  thing 
were  possible — he  would  still  be  in  a  position  to  go 
on  with  the  case,  if  that  should  be  necessary. 

That  night,  for  the  first  time  in  his  career,  he 
allowed  himself  to  be  kept  awake,  not  by  the  fear 
that  he  should  fail  through  inexperience  in  his 
duty  to  his  client — as  had  happened  sometimes  to 
trouble  him  earlier  in  his  professional  life — but  by 
a  dread  that  he  should  wilfully  betray  his  trust  to 
the  public.  At  two  o'clock  he  lay  staring  at  the 
wall,  asking  himself  if  he  was  becoming  corrupt; 
if  he,  too,  believed  in  shielding  guilt  if  only  that 
guilt  were  dressed  in  purple  and  spoke  with  a  soft 
and  cultured  accent. 


II. 

"  Mr.  Banks  will  be  down  in  a  moment;"  the 
trim  maid  had  said,  and  left  the  library  door  open 
as  she  withdrew. 

The  young  prosecutor  walked  about  the  room 
uneasily.  He  had  hoped  at  the  last  moment  that 
the  object  of  his  call  would  be  from  home — that 
he  would  take  fright  and  refuse  to  be  seen — that 
action  had  been  taken  by  the  police  which  would 


84  For  the  Prosecution. 

put  it  out  of  his  power  to  give  the  warning  that 
he  now  felt  he  was  here  to  give.  But,  no.  "  Mr. 
Banks  will  be  down  in  a  moment."  He  had  heard 
quite  distinctly,  and  there  had  not  been  the  slight- 
est accent  of  fear  or  annoyance  in  the  voice  that 
spoke. 

In  his  agitation  he  had  taken  up  a  curiously 
wrought  paper  knife  which  lay  upon  the  table  and 
had  dropped  it  as  if  it  had  burned  his  fingers." 

"Good  God  !"  he  exclaimed.  "He  was  the  col- 
lege thief.     It  is  no  new  thing,  then." 

He  took  up  the  knife  again  and  examined  it 
closely.  There  could  be  no  mistake.  It  was  a 
gold  wrought,  elaborately  engraved  blade,  set  m  a 
handle  which  had  no  duplicate,  for  the  students 
who  had  planned  the  gift  which  had  so  mysteri- 
ously disappeared  had  devised  and  caused  to  be 
engraved  a  secret  symbol  which  was  cut  deep  in 
the  polished  surface. 

It  was  to  have  been  a  surprise  for  one  of  the  fa- 
vorites in  the  faculty.  It  had  disappeared — and 
here  it  was  ! 

"  Good  morning,  Mathews.  This  is  really  very 
kind.     I—" 

It  was  the  voice  of  Walter  Banks,  but  their  eyes 
met  over  the  fallen  paper  knife,  which  had  dropped 
from  trembling  fingers  at  the  first  word. 

A  great  wave  of  color  rushed  into  the  face  of 
young  Banks.  The  prosecutor  stood  mute  and 
pale.  Involuntarily  he  had  tried  to  cover  the 
knife  with  a  corner  of  the  rug  as  he  turned  to  meet 


For  the  Prosecution.  85 

his  host.  It  vaguely  dawned  upon  him  that  he 
was  a  guest  in  a  house  where  he  was  playing  the 
part  of  a  detective.  His  hand  was  extended  in 
the  hearty  western  fashion  which  had  become  sec- 
ond nature  to  him,  but  Walter  Banks  did  not  take  it. 

"  Will  you  sit  down  ?"  said  the  host  in  a  tone 
which  was  hoarse,  and  quite  unlike  the  frank,  free 
voice  that  spoke  a  moment  before. 

As  he  seated  himself  he  bent  forward  and  took 
up  the  bit  of  tell-tale  gold  and  ivory.  Then  he 
said,  slowly  in  a  tone  that  was  scarcely  audible: 

"  Yes,  I  took  it.  You  are  right.  It  is  the  col- 
lege knife." 

"  Don't!  don't!"  exclaimed  Fred  Mathews,  rising. 
"  I  am—  You  forget —  I  am —  My  office. 
Think.  I  am  for  the  prosecution  !"  His  face  was 
livid.  Young  Banks  leaned  heavily  against  the 
table.  The  color  began  to  die  out  of  his  lips. 
His  hand  trembled  as  he  laid  the  knife  upon  the 
table.  Neither  spoke.  The  brain  of  the  young 
prosecutor  found  only  scraps  and  shreds  of  thought, 
in  which  such  words  as  duty,  honor,  pity,  hospital- 
ity, wealth,  social  order,  floated  vaguely  here  and 
there,  buffeted  by  the  one  insistent  idea  that  he 
should  go  go  quickly — and  leave  this  man  alone 
with  his  shame  and  humiliation. 

Walter  Banks  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  Come  up  to  my  room.  Mother  might  come  in 
here  and — I  suppose — you  have  come  about —  I 
—  Is —  ?  You  say  you  are  for  the  prosecution. 
Have  they  traced  the  cloak  to  me  ?" 


86  For  the  Prosecution. 

The  lawyer  stepped  back  again  and  looked  at 
the  man  before  him.  What  could  he  mean  by 
saying  such  a  thing  as  that — to  him  ?  They  had 
never  been  close  friends,  but  now  in  spite  of  every- 
thing the  thought  that  he  was  the  prosecutor  kept 
itself  steadily  in  the  attorney's  mind  and  struggled 
with  a  pity  and  reluctance  that  were  seeking  to 
justify  him  by  a  belief  in  the  insanity  of  young 
Banks. 

No  one  but  a  lunatic  would  have  made  that  last 
remark.  The  thought  was  a  relief.  He  grasped  at 
it  eagerly  and  began  to  fashion  his  mental  outlook 
to  fit  the  idea.  Then  suddenly  came  to  him  with 
overwhelming  force  all  he  had  ever  heard  or  read 
of  the  failure  of  justice  where  criminals  of  high 
degree  were  concerned. 

He  had  followed  his  host  to  the  stairs.  Sud- 
denly he  turned,  caught  up  his  hat  from  the  stand 
where  he  had  left  it,  and  passed  out  of  the  street 
door  without  a  word.  Once  in  the  street  he 
glanced  involuntarily  up  at  the  house.  At  the 
window  of  the  room  he  had  just  left  stood  Walter 
Banks.  His  arm  was  about  his  mother's  shoulders, 
and  both  were  very  pale.  There  was  a  strange 
likeness  between  them. 


III. 

Every  conceivable  form  of  pressure  to  prevent 
the  trial  of  Walter  Banks  was  brought  to  bear  in 
the  next  few  weeks;  but  Prosecutor  Mathews  had 


For  the  Prosecution.  87 

pushed  the  case  vigorously  in  spite  of  it  all.  He 
felt  not  only  that  justice  was  at  stake,  but  that 
his  own  moral  fibre  was  in  pawn,  as  well.  He  held 
aloof  from  his  social  friends — who  were  in  many 
cases  the  friends  of  the  accused,  also — lest  he  lose 
sight  of  his  duty  through  some  fresh  or  new  form 
of  attack  upon  his  integrity  of  purpose. 

It  had  come  to  his  knowledge  that  even  the 
Judge  who  was  to  sit  in  the  case  had  been  ap- 
proached by  the  friends  of  the  defendant,  and  it 
was  felt  that  it  would  be  difficult  to  impanel  a  jury 
that  would  or  could  be  fair  and  impartial. 

If  but  one  man  was  drawn  from  the  "  upper 
class,"  the  jury  would  be  sure  to  hang.  On  the 
other  hand,  if  all  of  the  talesmen  were  chosen  from 
that  social  caste  which  feels  that  it  is  usually  the 
victim,  it  would  go  hard  with  Walter  Banks  even 
if  he  were  able — as  seemed  wholly  unlikely — to 
show  a  reasonably  clear  case  in  his  favor. 

The  day  came.  The  court-room  held  an  unu- 
sual audience.  There  were  many  ladies  present 
who  had  never  before  seen  the  inside  of  such  a 
room.  They  held  their  breath  and  were  filled 
with  awe  and  fear — of  they  knew  not  what. 

Perhaps  few  men  can  realize  what  it  is  to  a 
woman  to  face  for  the  first  time  the  embodiment 
of  all  that  her  strong  faith  and  utter  ignorance  has 
carried  to  mature  years  as  an  ideal  of  justice  and 
dignity — of  solemn  obligation  and  fearful  responsi- 
bility. To  her  there  has  been  no  reverse  side  to 
the  picture.     She  believes  in  courts   as  courts  of 


88  For  the  Prosecution. 

justice.  She  knows  nothing  of  quibble,  of  techni- 
cality, of  precedent.  Nothing  here  is  light  or  hu- 
morous to  her.  Next  to  a  death  chamber  the 
criminal  court-room  is  fullest  of  the  thoughts 
which  reach  beyond  mere  human  responsibility 
and  import,  and  all  that  passes  there  is  freighted 
for  her  with  a  sense  of  finality  that  few  men  can 
comprehend.      They  think  of  reversal  of  judgment. 

The  fiat  of  the  court  is  the  closing  knell  to  a 
woman;  and  although  she  may  know  the  judge  in 
private  life  to  be  a  fallible  or — more  incongruous 
still — a  jovial  man,  his  presence  here  is  overpower- 
ing. Of  the  jury  she  feels  vaguely,  dread.  Of  the 
judge,  awe. 

The  mother  of  the  prisoner  sat  near  him.  Her 
sad,  pale,  refined  face  troubled  the  young  prosecu- 
tor sorely  and  he  tugged  at  his  conscience  and 
spurred  on  his  resolution  after  each  glance  at  her. 

The  case  was  so  plain,  the  evidence  so  clear,  the 
defence  so  weak  that  the  whole  tide  of  public  sen- 
timent swung  rapidly  from  the  side  of  the  prisoner 
to  that  of  the  people. 

The  indignation  for  him  which  had  been  felt  by 
the  society  women  who  had  come  to  show  them- 
selves as  his  friends  changed  into  scorn  and  con- 
tempt. The  whole  mental  atmosphere  of  the  room 
underwent  a  revolution.  When  court  opened  few 
besides  the  officers  believed  him  guilty.  As  the 
case  drew  near  its  close  no  one  believed  him  inno- 
cent. He  had  not  been  allowed  by  his  counsel  to 
take  the  stand  in  his  own  behalf,  and  this  had  told 


For  the  Prosecution.  89 

strongly  against  him  in  the  minds  of  both  jury  and 
spectators.  The  prosecuting  attorney  had  made  a 
telling  speech,  and  the  charge  of  the  judge  was 
plainly  indicative  of  his  opinion  that  there  was  but 
one  verdict  to  give. 

The  jury  had  taken  but  one  ballot.  They  had 
needed  no  charge  from  the  judge  at  all. 

"  Guilty," — came  from  the  foreman's  lips  with  a 
decided  accent  that  indicated  a  certain  satisfac- 
tion in  pronouncing  it.  The  prisoner's  face  grew 
a  shade  paler,  but  the  puzzled  light  in  his  eyes  lost 
nothing  of  that  weary,  insistent  questioning  that 
had  marked  their  depths  all  day.  Indeed,  he 
seemed  to  be  as  much  surprised,  as  the  evidence 
had  been  unfolded,  as  were  the  friends  who  were 
there  to  see  him  vindicated. 

During  the  speech  of  the  prosecutor  and  the 
charge  of  the  judge  young  Banks'  mother  had  held 
her  son's  hand  and  tears  had  dropped  unheeded 
from  her  eyes. 

The  judge  had  spoken  again,  but  no  one  moved. 
The  attorney  for  the  prisoner  bent  forward  and 
touched  him  on  the  shoulder. 

"  Stand  up  for  sentence,"  he  said.  "  The  judge" — 

"  Sit  still  !"  It  was  the  woman  beside  him  who 
spoke.  She  had  dried  her  tears.  Every  face  in 
the  room  was  turned  toward  her  now.  She  stag- 
gered to  her  feet.  Her  voice  penetrated  every 
corner  of  the  room. 

"  /am  the  thief,  judge.  Sentence  me.  I  stole 
the  cloak  !" 


90  For  the  Prosecution. 

"Mother,  mother!  Great  God,  it  is  not  true! 
Mother,  sit  down !  She  never  saw  the  coat. 
Mother !  Mother !  Great  God,  what  does  it 
mean  ?" 

The  young  fellow  had  sprung  to  his  feet,  but  she 
eluded  his  grasp,  and  before  any  one  knew  what 
she  intended  to  do  she  passed  onto  the  witness 
stand. 

There  was  a  tense  silence  in  the  room.  No  one 
was  prepared  for  the  scene.  It  had  been  so  swiftly 
done — so  wholly  without  warning — that  every  one 
sat  dumb. 

She  had  caught  up  the  Bible  as  she  reached  the 
stand  and  pressed  it  to  her  lips.  She  was  vaguely 
aware  that  this  act  was  looked  upon  as  affecting 
the  credibility  of  the  witness.  She  also  imagined 
that  it  gave  her  a  right  to  put  in  her  evidence  even 
at  this  stage  of  the  trial.  She  supposed  that  a 
trial  was  for  the  purpose  of  arriving  at  the  facts 
and  that  the  Court  sat  with  that  object  alone  in 
view.  She  did  not  know  that  it  was  too  late.  She 
was  unaware  that  the  case  would  have  to  be  re- 
opened to  admit  her  evidence.  She  did  not  know 
that  it  was  possible  for  the  gate  of  justice  to  be 
swung  shut  in  the  face  of  truth.  She  supposed  that 
all  trials  were  for  the  one  purpose  of  getting  at  the 
bottom  of  the  case;  so  that  it  did  not  occur  to  her 
that  her  action  was  strange  only  in  so  far  as  such  a 
confession  from  such  a  woman  must  be  so  regarded 
by  all  who  knew  her,  and  who  was  there  in  all  the 
town  who  did  not  know  and  respect  her? 


For  the  Prosecution.  91 

The  young  prosecutor  sat  mute.  The  eyes  of 
the  judge  widened  in  astonishment.  For  the  mo- 
ment he  was  the  man  and  neighbor  only.  He  for- 
got his  office.  She  was  talking  rapidly,  and  all 
were  listening. 

"  I  am  the  thief,  judge.  Let  me  tell  you.  It  is 
not  right  that  he  should  suffer  for  my  crime.  Poor 
boy,  his  life  has  been  a  hell  on  earth  for  me — for 
me!  And  he  has  never  understood.  I  could  not 
tell  him.  I  shall  now.  He  shall  understand.  You 
shall,  judge.  Oh,  God,  if  only  a  woman  sat  where 
you  do — a  mother  !  But  let  me  tell  you;  I  can.  I 
thought  I  could  not;  but  I  can — even  to  these  gen- 
tlemen." She  waved  her  hand  toward  the  jury  and 
there  was  a  widening  of  her  nostrils  as  if  her  breath 
and  courage  were  leaving  her.  "  Rather  than  have 
him  punished,  disgraced,  ruined,  I  can  tell  it  all. 
He  is  not  guilty.  It  is  I  !  It  is  I  !"  She  put  her 
trembling  hands  to  her  temples  and  her  eyes  were 
those  of  a  hunted  creature  at  bay. 

"  Before  he  came  into  the  world — you'll  let  me 
tell  you  frankly,  judge  ?  I  must.  Before  he  came 
into  the  world  I  made  him  what  he  is — a  thief. 
Did  I  or  did  his  father  ?  It  was  like  this.  I  am 
ashamed  to  tell  it,  but,  oh,  judge,  I  loved  him,  and 
I  longed  to  make  the  pretty  things  and  buy  the 
dainty  ones  that  would  make  his  soft,  white,  dim- 
pled flesh  look  sweeter  when  he  should  lie  before 
me.  His  father  was — you  knew  his  father,  judge. 
He  was  a  good  man,  but —  You  know  how  he 
loved  money — and  power.     He —    I —    I  was  the 


92  For  the  Prosecution. 

pauper  most  young  wives  are.  I  was  too  proud  to 
ask  for  money,  and  if  I  had  asked  often —  But  I 
was  too  proud,  so,  perhaps,  I  need  not  tell  about 
the  if.  Most  women  know  it,  and —  You  could 
not  understand." 

She  paused.  A  panic  had  overtaken  her  nerves. 
She  was  becoming  vaguely  conscious  of  her  posi- 
tion. Her  eyes  wandered  over  the  room;  but  when 
they  fell  upon  her  son,  sitting  with  his  wretched 
face  pinched  and  startled,  with  his  deep  eyes  star- 
ing at  her,  her  courage  came  again. 

"At  first  I  had  no  thought  of  theft.  I  used 
to  go  each  night  after  my  husband  fell  asleep  and 
take  a  little  money  from  his  pocket.  Only  a  little. 
He  never  missed  it — never.  So  he  used  to  whip 
the  boy  for  stealing  afterward  and  said  he  would 
disgrace  us  and —  I  never  told  him  even  then. 
Life  was  horrible.  The  growing  certainty  mad- 
dened me.  He  would  steal  anything,  everything 
about  the  house,  even  his  own  things.  He  did  not 
understand  himself  and  he  could  not  help  it;  but 
I  did  not  think  it  would  ever  come  to  this — through 
me — through  me  J" 

She  calmed  herself  again  suddenly  by  a  glance 
at  her  son. 

"  Every  night  I  took  only  a  little  money.  My 
motive  was  a  good  one.  I  knew  my  husband  did 
not  understand  how  I  longed  to  get  the  pretty 
things.  How —  Of  course  in  one  sense  I  had  a 
right  to  the  money.  He  was  rich  even  then,  but 
— I  felt  myself  a — pauper — and  a  thief. 


For  the  Prosecution.  93 

"  I —  Do  you  think  young  mothers  should  be 
young  paupers,  judge?  I've  sometimes  thought 
that  if  they  were  not  there  might  be  less  use  for 
courts  like  this — and  prisons. 

"  I've  sometimes  thought  if  mothers  sat  on  juries 
they'd  know  the  reasons  why  for  crime  and  wrong 
and,  maybe,  work  to  cure  the  causes  of  the  crimes 
rather  than  simply  punish  those  who  have  com- 
mitted them  blindly — often  blindly. 

"  I've  sometimes  thought  the  cost — in  money — 
would  be  less;  and  then  the  cost  in  love  and  sor- 
row! Oh,  judge,  be  patient  just  a  little  longer. 
Do  not  let  them  stop  me.  It  means  so  much  to 
us  J  I'll  go  back  to  the  point.  I'll  tell  the  truth 
— all  of  it — all.     But  it  is  hard  to  do  it — here. 

"I  bought  the  little  wardrobe;  but  remember, 
judge,  the  months  and  months  of  daily  building, 
bone  on  bone,  fibre  within  fibre,  thought  on  thought 
that  is  moulded  into  shape  for  human  beings! 

"  I  knew  your  father,  judge.  Your  eyes  are  like 
his,  but  all  your  mental  life — your  temperament — 
you  got  from  other  blood  than  filled  his  veins. 

"  Your  father's  mother  gave  you  your  character. 
Your  gentle  heart  is  hers — your  patient  thought- 
fulness.  I  knew  her  well.  I  knew  your  mother, 
too.  She  was  the  teacher  of  my  motherhood.  It 
was  to  her  I  told  the  truth  in  my  boy's  childhood 
— when  I  first  began  to  realize  or  fear  what  I  had 
done.  You  owe  it  all  to  her  that  you  are  strong 
and  true.  She  understood  in  time — and  now  you 
sit  in  judgment  on  my  boy,  whose  mother  learned 


94  For  the  Prosecution. 

from  yours  too  late  the  meaning  and  the  danger  of 
it  all.  She  saved  my  other  children.  I  killed  my 
pride  for  them.  /  asked  for  money.  The  others 
may  be  beggars  some  day — they  never  will  be 
thieves. 

"  That  boy  has  never  asked  a  favor.  He  simply 
cannot.  His  pride  was  always  stronger  than  any- 
thing— anything  except  his  love  for  me. 

"  I  knit  that  in  his  blood  too.  I  loved  him  so 
I  made  myself  a  thief  for  him.  Of  course  I  did 
not  know — I  did  not  understand  the  awful  danger 
then;  but —  A  young  mother — I — it  is  hard  to 
tell  it  here.  You  will  not  understand — you  cannot. 
Oh,  God,  for  a  mother  on  the  jury!  A  mother 
on  the  bench!" 

She  caught  at  her  escaping  courage  again.  The 
officer  whose  duty  it  was  to  take  her  away  moved 
forward  a  second  time,  and  a  second  time  the 
judge  motioned  him  back.  She  had  been  his 
mother's  friend  ever  since  he  could  remember,  and 
the  ordinary  discipline  of  the  court  was  not  for 
her.  He  would  do  his  duty,  he  said  to  himself, 
but  surely  there  was  no  haste.  All  this  was  irreg- 
ular, of  course,  but  if  something  should  come  of  it 
that  gave  excuse  for  a  new  trial  no  one  would  be 
more  thankful  than  he. 

"Young  mothers  are  so  ignorant.  They  know 
so  little  of  all  the  things  of  which  they  should 
know  much.  They  are  so  helpless.  Judge,  there 
will  be  criminal  courts  and  prisons — oh,  so  many 
of  both — just   as  long  as   motherhood  is  ignorant 


For  the  Prosecution.  95 

and  helpless  and  swayed  by  feeling  only.  Don't 
you  know  it  is  ignorance  and  feeling  that  leads 
to  crime?  If  people  only  understood!  If  only 
they  were  able  to  think  it  out  to  what  it  means, 
crimes  would  not  be — but  they  cannot,  they  can- 
not! Those  trembling  lips  you  see  before  you 
are  no  more  truly  a  copy  of  mine — the  boy  is  as 
responsible  for  the  set  and  curve  of  those  lips — as 
he  is  for  his  hopeless  fault.  He  has  stolen  from 
his  infancy;  but  I,  not  he,  am  the  thief.  Now 
sentence  the  real  criminal,  judge.  Courts  are  to 
punish  the  guilty — not  to  further  curse  the  help- 
less victims.  I  am  the  criminal  here.  Sentence 
me!" 

"  Mother!  Mother!  I  never  understood  my- 
self before!     Oh,  mother,  mother!" 

It  was  a  wild  cry  from  Walter  Banks  as  his  moth- 
er had  risen  asking  for  sentence  on  herself.  He 
sprang  forward,  forgetting  everything  and  took  her 
in  his  arms.     There  was  a  great  stir  in  the  room. 

"Silence  in  the  court!" 

Mrs.  Banks  had  fainted.  Her  son  helped  to 
carry  her  into  another  room.  No  one  attempted 
to  prevent  him.  The  young  prosecutor  returned 
with  him  and  stood  dumb  before  the  court. 

"  I  am  ready  for  sentence,  your  Honor.  I  com- 
mitted the  burglary."  It  was  the  voice  of  the 
prisoner.  He  was  standing  with  his  arms  folded 
and  his  eyes  cast  down.  Silence  fell  in  the  room. 
The  women  ceased  to  sob.  There  was  an  uneasy 
movement  in  the  jury  box. 


96  For  the  Prosecution. 

"  In  view  of  the  new  evidence — "  began  the  fore- 
man but  the  voice  of  the  judge,  slow  and  steady, 
filled  the  room. 

"  It  is  the  sentence  of  this  court  that  you,  Wal- 
ter Banks,  be  confined  at  hard  labor  in  the  state 
penitentiary  for  the  term  of  four  years." 

The  prisoner  bowed  and  turned  a  shade  paler. 

"  Do  not  tell  mother  that  until  she  is  better,"  he 
said  to  his  attorney  and  passed  out  in  the  custody 
of  the  sheriff. 

"And  at  the  end  of  four  years,  what!"  a  lady 
was  saying  to  the  young  prosecutor  as  the  room 
slowly  emptied. 

"The  brute!"  was  hurled  after  the  judge  by  an- 
other, as  his  form  vanished  through  the  door. 

"  Shows  that  law  is  not  for  the  poor  alone—" 

"Good  things  for  social  order  and — " 

"Well,  yes,  I'm  rather  disappointed;  but  of 
course  a  judge  can't  go  behind  the  returns." 

"  Evidence  all  one  way  if — " 

"Heavens,  what  a  scene!" 

" — my  opinion  no  woman  should  ever  be  ad- 
mitted to  a  court  room  except  as  a  prisoner. 
It—" 

"  Feather  in  the  cap  of  the  prosecutor." 

"  — re-election  sure  enough  now." 

"Whole  thing  in  a  nutshell—" 

"  Simple  question.  Did  he  commit  the  burglary? 
If  so—" 

The  young  prosecutor  hurried  away  from  the 
sound  of  these  voices  and   the  congratulations  of 


For  the  Prosecution.  97 

his  political  friends.  He  was  mentally  sore  and 
perplexed  because  he  had  won  his  case. 

That  night  he  called  upon  the  prisoner  for  the 
second  time. 

"  I  have  made  up^  my  mind  to  resign  my  office," 
he  said,  not  looking  at  the  convict,  who  had  risen 
to  receive  him. 

Walter  Banks  was  by  far  the  calmer  of  the  two, 
but  he  did  not  speak. 

"  I  shall  never  be  able  to  act  for  the  prosecution 
again.  I  thought  this  case  was  so  clear.  My  duty 
seemed  so  plain — too  plain  to  admit  of  anything 
but  the  most  vigorous  course  of  action;  but — " 

"You  did  nothing  but  your  duty,  Mathews.  We 
are  all  victims  I  suppose — one  way  or  another. 
You  are  going  to  be  the  victim  of  your  sensitive 
conscience.  The  result  will  be  a  course  of  vacil- 
lation that  will  ruin  your  chances  of  success.  I 
am  sorry.  You've  got  all  the  elements  for  a  leader 
— only  you've  got  a  conscience.  That  settles  it. 
A  bit  of  heredity  like  that  is  as  fatal  as — as  mine." 
He  bit  his  lips. 

"  Don't  let  your  part  in  my  case  worry  you.  The 
game  of  life  has  gone  against  me.  That  is  all. 
The  dice  were  loaded  before  I  ever  got  hold  of 
them.  I  did  what  I  could  to  out-live — out-fight 
my  awful — inheritance.  I  wasn't  strong  enough. 
It  got  the  best  of  me.  Nature  is  a  terrible  antag- 
onist. Perhaps  now  that  I  understand  myself 
better  I  shall  be  able  to  keep  a  firmer  hold.  You 
did   your  duty,  Mathews  ;   good-by.     Be —     Can't 


98  For  the  Prosecution. 

you  be  a  little  kind  to  mother  ?  She  suffers  so. 
Her  punishment  is  double — and  her  crime  was 
ignorance!" 

This  time  he  took  the  hand  that  was  held  out  to 
him. 

"Only  ignorance,"  he  added.  "It  seems  an 
awful  punishment  for  that." 

"  Ignorance — and  poverty  and  love,"  said  the 
young  prosecutor  as  the  door  closed  behind  him, 
"and  Nature  did  the  rest!  What  a  grip  is  at  our 
throats!  And  how  we  help  blind  Nature  in  her 
cruel  work  by  laws  and  customs  and  conditions! 
What  a  little  way  we've  come  from  barbarism  yet! 
How  slow  we  travel.  But  we  are  moving,"  he 
added  with  a  deep  sigh.  "  Moving  a  little.  There 
is  light  ahead.  If  •'not  for  us,  then  for  those  who 
come  after." 

He  heard  the  bolt  slip  behind  him  and  shud- 
dered. 

"  It  might  as  easily  have  been  I,"  he  mused  as 
he  went  down  the  steps,  and  shuddered  again. 

"  I  doubt  if  it  was  fault  of  his  or  virtue  of  mine 
that  determined  which  of  us  two  should  be  the 
prosecutor." 


H  1Rust£  Xfnfe  fn  tbe  Cbafn. 


"/«  the  brain,  that  wondrous  world  with  one  inhabitant,  there 
are  recesses  dim  and  dark,  treacherous  sands  and  dangerous 
shores,  where  seeming  sirens  tempt  and  fade;  streams  that  rise  in 
unknown  lands  from  hidden  springs,  strange  seas  with  ebb  and 
floiv  of  tides,  resistless  billows  urged  by  storms  of  flame,  profound 
and  awful  depths  hidden  by  mist  of  dreams,  obscure  and  phantom 
realms  where  vague  and  fearful  things  are  half  revealed ,  jungles 
where  passion's  tigers  crouch,  and  skies  of  cloud  and  hiue  where 
fancies  fly  with  painted  wings  that  dazzle  and  mislead;  and  the 
poor  sovereign  of  this  pictured  world  is  led  by  old  desires  and 
ancient  hates,  and  stained  by  crimes  of  many  vanished  years,  and 
pushed  by  hands  that  long  ago  were  dust,  until  he  feels  like  some 
bewildered  slave  tJuxt  Mockery  has  throned  and  crowned.'1'1 

INGERSOLL. 


A  RUSTY  LINK  IN  THE  CHAIN. 


When  I  called,  last  Sunday  afternoon,  as  was 
my  habit,  upon  my  old  college  friend — now  a  dis- 
tinguished physician — I  found  him  sitting  in  his 
office  holding  in  his  hand  a  letter.  His  manner 
was  unusually  grave  and,  I  thought,  troubled.  I 
asked  him,  laughingly,  if  he  had  had  bad  news  from 
beyond  the  seas — from  his  Castle  in  Spain. 

"  No,  it  is  worse  than  that,  I  fear,"  he  said  gravely. 
"  It  looks  to  me  very  much  like  bad  news  from  be- 
yond the  grave— from  the  Castle  of  Heredity  in  the 
realm  of  an  Ancestor." 

"  I  hope,  doctor,  that  you  have  not  had, — that  my 
little  jest  was  not  a  cruel  touch  upon  a  real  hurt." 

"  Not  at  all,  not  at  all,  old  fellow,"  he  said,  smil- 
ing a  little. 

"  It  is  not  my  own  trouble  at  all  ;  but — well,  it 
set  me  to  thinking  strange  thoughts.  Shall  I  tell  you 
about  it  ?  I  should  really  like  to  know  just  how  it 
would  impress  you — an  intelligent  man  out  of  the 
profession." 

He  placed  the  letter  on  the  table  beside  him, 
looked  at  me  steadily  for  a  moment,  and  then  be- 
gan: 

IOI 


102  A  Rusty  Link  in  the  Chain. 

"  It  may  be  as  well  to  say  that  I  have  never  before 
ventured  to  tell  the  story  of  George  Wetherell's 
curious  experience,  simply  because  I  have  always 
felt  certain  that  to  a  really  intelligent  and  well-in- 
formed physician  it  would  be  a  comparatively 
familiar,  and  not  specially  startling  (although  a 
wholly  uncomprehended)  phase  of  human  disorder  ; 
while  to  many,  not  of  the  profession,  it  would 
appear  to  involve  such  fearful  and  far-reaching  re- 
sults, that  they  would  either  refuse  to  believe  it 
possible  at  all,  or  else  jump  to  the  conclusion  that 
numerous  cases  which  have  only  some  slight  point 
of  similarity  are  to  be  classed  with  it  and  explained 
upon  the  same  basis. 

"  In  regard  to  these  latter  persons,  I  do  not  intend 
to  convey  the  impression  that  I  am  either  ambitious 
to  shield  them  from  the  consequences  of  their  own 
nimble  and  unguarded  reckonings,  or  that  by  my 
silence  in  this  particular  instance  I  suppose  that  I 
have  prevented  them  from  forming  quite  as  errone- 
ous opinions  founded  upon  some  other  equally  mis- 
understood and  ill-digested  scrap  of  psychological 
and  medical  information. 

"  But  it  has  sometimes  seemed  to  me  that  there 
were  certain  features  connected  with  the  case  of 
George  Wetherell  which,  in  the  hands  of  the  igno- 
rant or  unscrupulous,  might  easily  be  used  to  the  dis- 
advantage of  their  fellow-beings,  and  I  have  there- 
fore hesitated  to  lay  it  before  any  one  who  was  not, 
in  my  opinion,  both  intelligent  and  honorable 
enough  to  accept  it  as  one  of  the   strange  manifes- 


A  Rusty  Link  in  the  Chain.  103 

tations  in  an  individual  experience  ;  and  to  under- 
stand, because  of  the  innumerable  conditions  of 
mental  and  physical  heredity — which  were  not  likely 
ever  to  occur  again  in  the  same  proportions — that 
therefore  the  same  manifestations  were,  not  to  be 
looked  for  in  a  sufficient  number  of  persons  to  ever 
make  this  case  in  any  sense  a  type  or  a  guide. 

"  Notwithstanding  this,  there  are,  as  I  said  in  the 
first  place,  certain  features  connected  with  it  which 
many  members  of  the  medical  profession  will 
recognize  ;  but  they  are  none  the  less  puzzling 
symptoms. 

"  The  matter  has  been  brought  back  with  unusual 
force  to  my  mind  at  this  time,  by  a  circumstance  con- 
nected with  one  of  Wetherell's  children,  which  is  de- 
tailed in  this  letter.  It  lends  a  new  touch  of  interest 
to  the  malady  of  the  father.  To  enable  you  to  ob- 
tain even  a  fairly  comprehensive  idea  of  the  strange 
development,  it  will  be  necessary  for  me  to  tell  you, 
first,  something  about  the  man  and  his  surround- 
ings. 

"  To  be  as  brief  as  I  may,  then,  he  was  the  son  of 
a  merry,  whole-souled,  stout,  and,  withal,  mentally 
alert,  Southern  gentleman,  who  had  taken  the  law 
into  his  own  hands  and  duly  scandalized  the  repu- 
table part  of  the  community  in  which  he  lived  by 
giving  his  slaves  (all  of  whom  he  or  his  wife  had 
inherited)  their  freedom  at  a  time  and  under  cir- 
cumstances which  made  it  necessary  for  him  to  be- 
take himself  with  some  considerable  alacrity  to  a 
part  of  the  country  where  it  was  looked  upon  as 


104  -^  Rusty  Link  in  the  Chain. 

respectable  to  pay  for  the  voluntary  services  of  one's 
fellowmen,  rather  than  to  pay  for  the  man  himself 
with  the  expectation  that  the  services  were  to  be 
thrown  in. 

"  Of  course  it  was  imperative — not  only  for  the 
peace,  but  for  the  saf  ety  of  all  parties  concerned — 
for  him  to  transport  both  his  family  and  his  freed- 
men  to  a  place  where  it  was  at  once  honorable  for  a 
white  man  to  do  such  a  deed  and  for  a  black  man 
to  own  himself.  This  he  did;  and  while  a  number 
of  the  negroes  remained  in  the  service  of  the  family, 
the  son  (on  whose  account,  and  to  prevent  whom 
from  believing  in  and  being  enervated  by  the  posses- 
sion of  slaves  the  step  had,  in  great  measure,  been 
taken)  had  grown  to  manhood  with  a  curious  min- 
gling of  Southern  sympathies  and  Northern  reason- 
ing and  convictions. 

"  The  outbreak  of  the  war  found  the  young  fellow 
struggling  bravely,  with  all  the  fire  and  energy  of  a 
peculiarly  gifted  nature,  to  establish  a  newspaper 
in  a  border  State,  and  to  convince  his  readers  that 
the  extension  of  slavery  would  be  a  grave  calamity, 
not  only  for  the  owned  but  for  the  owner. 

"  His  two  associates  were  Eastern  college-bred 
men,  and  it  was  therefore  deemed  wisest  to  push 
young  Wetherell  forward  as  the  special  champion  of 
free  soil,  under  the  illusion  that  his  Southern  birth 
and  sympathies  would  win  for  him  a  more  ready  and 
kindly  hearing  on  a  subject  which  at  that  time 
was  a  dangerous  one  to  handle  freely,  especially  in 
the  border-land  then  under  dispute. 


A  Rusty  Link  in  the  Chain.  105 

"  But  the  three  young  enthusiasts  had  reckoned, 
as  young  people  will,  upon  a  certain  degree  of  rea- 
son about,  and  calm  discussion  of,  a  question  which 
at  that  time  they  still  recognized  as  having  two 
very  strong  and  serious  sides  ;  for  they  had  not 
taken  the  stand  of  the  Abolition  party  at  all.  They 
called  themselves  free-soil  Democrats,  and  were 
simply  arguing  against  the  extension  of  an  institu- 
tion which  they  were  not  yet  prepared  to  believe  it 
wise  to  attempt  to  abolish  where  it  was  already 
established,  and  where  there  was  seemingly  no 
other  peaceable  or  fair  solution  than  the  one  of 
limitation  and  gradual  emancipation,  through  the 
process  of  mental  and  moral  development  of  the 
ruling  race.  This  position  was  not  an  unnatural 
one,  surely,  for  young  Wetherell,  and  was  only 
what  might  have  been  expected  from  the  son  of  a 
man  who  had  given  practical  demonstration  of  the 
possibility  of  such  evolution  in  the  slave-holding 
and  slave-dependent  class. 

"  But,  as  I  have  intimated,  the  confidence  and 
reasonableness  of  youth  had  led  to  a  complete  mis- 
conception as  to  the  temper  of  the  opposition.  It 
is  quite  possible  that  the  frank,  passionate,  free-soil 
editorials,  if  they  had  come  from  either  of  the 
Eastern  men,  might  have  been  accepted  as  the  de- 
lusions of  youth,  the  prejudice  of  section,  or,  at 
worst,  as  the  arguments  of  partisans  ;  but  from  a 
man  of  Southern  birth — the  son  of  a  law-breaker 
(you  must  remember  that  the  enfranchisement  of 
the  slaves  had  been  a  serious  infraction  of  the  law, 


106  A  Rusty  Link  in  the  Chain. 

strange  as  that  sounds  to  the  ears  of  the  present 
generation) — from  the  son  of  such  a  man  they 
could  mean  only  a  malicious  desire  to  stir  up  strife 
and  cause  bloodshed  by  making  restless  slaves 
dangerous  and  dangerous  slaves  desperate.  The 
result  was  that  one  night,  after  the  issue  of  a  paper 
containing  an  article  of  unusual  force  and  power, 
young  Wetherell  found  himself  startled  from  a 
sound  sleep,  in  the  back  room  of  his  office,  by  the 
smell  of  smoke  and  gleam  of  flame. 

"  He  understood  their  significance  at  a  glance,  and 
knew  that  escape  by  the  front  door  meant  a  recep- 
tion by  masked  men,  five  minutes  for  prayer,  and — 
a  rope. 

"  Springing  from  the  back  window  into  the  river, 
he  swam  to  the  other  shore,  and  within  a  few  days 
raised  the  first  regiment  of  volunteers  that  the 
State  sent  in  response  to  the  call  of  the  President, 
and  cut  adrift  at  once  and  forever  from  all  effort 
to  argue  the  case  from  an  ethical  or  a  financial  out- 
look. 

"It  is  more  than  likely  that  anger  may  have  I  ^d 
something  to  do  with  his  sudden  conversion  from  a 
'  peace  and  argument,'  to  first  a  '  war  Democrat,' 
and  shortly  thereafter  to  a  Republican  ;  but  be 
that  as  it  may,  it  is  certain  that  at  such  crises  as 
these,  mental  activity  is  spurred  and  radical  changes 
are  made  with  a  rapidity  and  decision  astonishing 
to  contemplate  in  periods  of  quiet  and  peace. 

"  So  it  came  about  that  this  lad  of  twenty-three 
suddenly  found  himself  at  the  head  of  a  regiment 


A  Rusty  Link  in  the  Chain.  107 

of  somewhat  desperate  border  men,  most  of  whom 
were  more  than  twice  his  own  age,  wildly  charging 
a  battery  in  one  of  the  first  battles  of  the  war. 

"  He  received  three  wounds,  one  of  which  was  a 
slight  abrasion  of  the  scalp,  not  looked  upon  as 
more  than  a  scratch  by  either  the  surgeon  or  him- 
self ;  indeed,  it  would  hardly  be  worth  mentioning 
but  for  the  strange  events  which  followed.  Whether 
this  wound  had  anything  to  do  with  the  con- 
dition of  which  I  am  about  to  tell,  you  will  have  to 
decide  for  yourself  ;  but  I  must  warn  you,  in  the 
beginning,  that  there  was  nothing  like  a  fracture  of 
the  skull,  and  the  little  path  made  by  the  bullet 
through  the  scalp  healed  without  trouble,  almost 
without  attention,  and  never  afterward  gave  the 
slightest  pain. 

"  The  hair,  it  is  true,  did  not  grow  again  over  the 
parting,  and,  as  it  was  nearly  in  the  middle  of  his 
head,  it  made  him  an  involuntary  follower  of  the 
fashion  of  a  certain  effeminate  type  of  youths  for 
whom  he  had  an  overwhelming  contempt.  Neither 
of  the  other  two  wounds  was  serious,  and  after  a 
very  short  period  in  the  hospital  he  reported  for 
duty,  was  promoted,  and  given  sole  charge  of  a 
post  of  considerable  importance. 

"  Shortly  thereafter  his  father  received  a  some 
what  discomposing  telegram.  He  had  previously  had 
several  more  or  less  lucid  despatches  from  his  son 
while  the  patient  was  still  in  the  hospital  ;  but  any 
lack  of  clearness  in  their  wording  had  beenattrib- 


108  A  Rusty  Link  in  the  Chain. 

uted  to  haste  or  to  carelessness  in  the  transmission, 
and  as  they  all  indicated  rapid  recovery,  no  undue 
anxiety  had  been  felt.  But  the  message  in  question 
now  produced  the  impression  that  there  was  some- 
thing wrong.  It  read :  '  Send  me  one  thousand 
swords  immediately.' 

"After  a  few  moments'  consultation  with  the  boy's 
mother,  Mr.  Wetherell  packed  his  hand-bag,  and, 
armed  with  a  letter  from  President  Lincoln,  whose 
personal  friend  he  was,  started  for  the  seat  of  war. 

"  Upon  arriving  at  his  destination,  the  son  ex- 
pressed no  surprise  whatever,  but  much  pleasure,  at 
seeing  his  father.  He  asked,  in  the  most  natural 
and  affectionate  way,  about  each  member  of  the 
family,  and  then  suddenly  put  his  hand  to  his  head 
and  appeared  to  be  in  deep  thought. 

"  His  eyes  contracted  in  the  manner  peculiar  to 
some  persons  when  attempting  to  recall  a  long- 
forgotten  event  ;  but  in  a  moment  this  had  passed 
away  and  he  appeared  to  be  perfectly  clear  and 
natural. 

"  He  attended  to  the  affairs  of  his  office  in  a  man- 
ner which  not  only  escaped  criticism,  but  won  praise 
from  his  superiors,  and  conversed  with  great  freedom 
and  marked  intelligence  on  the  stirring  subjects  of 
the  time. 

"  He  had  had  some  little  fever  while  his  wounds 
were  fresh,  but  in  no  degree  to  cause  alarm,  and  even 
this  had  now  almost  entirely  left  him.  In  short,  he 
appeared  to  be  in  nearly  perfect  mental  and  physical 
health.     There  was,  however,  one  peculiarity  which 


A  Rusty  Link  in  the  Chain.  109 

the  father  noticed  as  unfamiliar  in  his  son  ;  but  as 
it  was  not  at  all  strange  that  so  young  a  man — or 
any  man,  indeed,  who  had  suddenly  been  given  con- 
trol of  matters  of  such  grave  importance — should 
at  times  be  very  quiet  and  appear  to  be  struggling 
to  recall  some  matter  of  moment,  the  habit  was 
not  given  more  than  passing  attention,  and  it  was 
not  sufficiently  marked  to  be  noticed  at  all  by  any 
one  except  a  near  relation.  At  these  times  young 
Wetherell  would  contract  his  eyebrows,  look  stead- 
ily at  some  object  near  him, — as  the  toe  of  his  boot 
or  the  palm  of  his  hand, — raise  his  head  suddenly, 
gaze  at  the  distant  horizon,  bite  his  lip,  and  then 
appear  to  either  give  it  up  or  be  satisfied  with  some 
mental  solution  of  his  puzzle. 

"  One  day  his  father  said  :  '  What  is  it,  George?' 

"  The  young  fellow  turned  his  eyes  quickly  upon 
his  father  and  asked  : 

" '  Have  I  forgotten  anything  ?  It  seems  to  me 
there  is  something  I  just  fail  to  recall.  I  am  on 
the  edge  of  it  constantly,  but  it  slips.  I  can't  get 
quite  enough  hold  on  it  to  be  sure  what  it  is — or  to 
be  certain,  indeed,  that  it  is  anything.  Can  you 
think  of  anything  I  ought  to  do  that  I  have  over- 
looked ? ' 

"  This  all  sounded  natural  enough,  and  was,  seem- 
ingly, a  condition  not  unfamiliar  to  his  father,  so 
they  began  together  going  over  the  duties  pertain- 
ing to  the  son's  office  to  see  if,  by  a  mischance, 
something  had  been  neglected.  Everything  was 
complete  and  in  perfect  order  ;  but  still  the  look 


I  io  A  Rusty  Link  in  the  Chain. 

returned  from  time  to  time,  until  it  became  almost 
habitual. 

"  This  was  ten  days  after  his  father  had  reached 
camp,  and  his  plan  was  to  leave  for  home  that  af- 
ternoon ;  for,  as  I  said,  the  boy's  wounds  were 
almost  entirely  healed,  and  he  appeared  to  be  in 
need  of  nothing  whatever.  More  and  more  his  su- 
perior officers  called  him  into  their  councils,  and 
more  and  more  his  clear  judgment  was  commended 

by  them. 

"  He  was  to  walk  to  the  train  with  his  father. 
The  moment  they  were  outside  the  limits  of  the 
camp  George  remarked,  casually,  '  I  must  stop  on 
the  way  and  order  those  swords.' 

"  The  remark  recalled  the  queer  telegram  which 
had  caused  Mr.  Wetherell  to  come  to  his  son,  the 
wording  of  which  had  been  wholly  obliterated  from 
his  mind  by  their  meeting. 

"  '  What  swords  ?'  inquired  his  father,  now  on  the 
alert  again. 

"  The  young  fellow  turned  and  looked  at  his 
father  for  a  moment,  and  then  said  : '  I  don't  know. 
It  is  a  secret  order.  Don't  mention  it.  The  gen- 
eral told  me  to  order  them.  They  are  to  be  sent 
to  me.' 

"  This  all  seemed  probable  enough  to  Mr.  Weth- 
erell, and  yet  he  somehow  felt,  rather  than  saw,  a 
queer  change  in  his  son's  eyes,  which  he  thought  he 
had  noticed  once  or  twice  before. 

"  He  decided  not  to  return  home  for  the  present. 
When  he  told  his  son  this,  the  boy  took  it  quite 


A  Rusty  Link  in  the  Chain.  1 1 1 

as  a  matter  of  course,  and  made  no  comment  what- 
ever on  the  sudden  alteration  of  purpose. 

"  On  the  way  back  to  camp  George  stepped  into 
a  military  supply  station  and  ordered  fourteen 
hundred  swords  to  be  delivered  to  him  immedi- 
ately. 

"  By  this  time  his  father  had  made  up  his  mind 
that  there  were  short  intervals  in  which  the  young 
colonel  did  not  know  exactly  what  he  was  doing — 
or,  rather,  that  while  he  did  know  and  act  intelli- 
gently— from  the  outlook  of  the  moment — it  was  a 
time  wholly  disconnected  from  the  rest  of  his  life, 
and  when  the  moment  was  past  he  had  no  farther 
recollection  of  it. 

"  However,  Mr.  Wetherell  was  not  sure  enough  of 
this  to  risk  compromising  a  probably  brilliant  future 
by  a  premature  or  unnecessarily  public  announce- 
ment, and  he  therefore  allowed  the  order  to  be 
made,  and  taken  in  good  faith,  and  walked  back  to 
camp  with  his  son,  who  immediately  went  about 
his  duties  in  the  most  intelligent  and  scrupulously 
carefid  manner. 

"  Mr.  Wetherell,  however,  made  a  call  upon  the 
officer  in  command  the  moment  he  could  do  so 
without  attracting  attention  ;  and  after  a  long  talk 
(in  which  the  secret  sword  order  was  discovered  to 
be  a  delusion),  it  was  decided  that  the  recently  re- 
covered invalid  should  retire  from  the  field  on  the 
sick  leave,  which  he  had  previously  refused  to  con- 
sider. 

"When  he  was  told  of  this  arrangement,  he  agreed 


112  A  Rusty  Link  in  the  Chain. 

to  it  without  a  murmur,  and  began,  for  the  first 
time  for  many  days,  to  have  his  wounds  (which 
were  now  past  the  need  of  it)  dressed  with  much 
care.  This  he  continued  every  mornirg,  but  by 
the  time  they  reached  home  he  had  become  pos- 
sessed with  the  belief  that  his  chief  wound  was  in 
his  side,  where  there  had  not  been  a  scratch. 

"  To  humor  him,  the  family  physician  applied  ban- 
dages to  the  imaginary  injury  every  day  regularly. 

"  All  this  time  there  was  no  clearer  talker,  no  more 
acute  reasoner,  no  more  simple,  earnest,  gentle- 
manly fellow  to  be  found  than  Col.  George  Weth- 
erell,  whom  his  townsmen  were  honoring  and  induc- 
ing to  make  public  speeches  and  write  clear,  firm, 
inspiring  editorials  for  one  of  the  leading  papers. 
No  one  except  his  own  family  and  physician  sus- 
pected for  a  moment  that  he  was  not  mentally  as 
bright  as  he  always  had  been,  and  even  the  younger 
members  of  the  family  were  without  the  least  hint 
of  it. 

"  Indeed,  his  father  and  the  doctor  both  thought 
that  his  only  illusion  now  was  a  belief  in  the  wound 
in  his  side.  Several  weeks  passed,  and  even  this 
indication  was  losing  its  force,  for  he  no  longer  re- 
quired medical  attention,  and  was  as  well  and  as  ra- 
tional as  ever  in  his  life,  so  far  as  any  one  could 
perceive,  when  one  day  a  stranger  appeared  and 
asked  for  him.  Mr.  Wetherell  requested  the  gen- 
tleman (who  was  evidently  laboring  under  great  ex- 
citement) to  be  seated,  and  at  the  same  time  made 
up  his  own  mind  to  be  present  during  the  interview. 


A  Rusty  Link  in  the  Chain.  1 1 3 

Colonel  Wetherell  was  summoned,  and,  on  entering 
the  room,  looked  in  a  startled  way  at  the  stranger, 
rmiled  vaguely,  extended  his  hand,  contracted  his 
eyes  into  a  long,  narrow  line,  turned  white,  and 
throwing  both  arms  suddenly  above  his  head,  ex- 
claimed :  '  My  God  !  my  God  !  what  have  I  done  ? 
Where  am  I  ?  How  long  has  it  been  ?  Is  she 
dead  ?  Is  she  dead  ?'  and  staggered  back  into  his 
father's  arms. 

"  His  distress  was  so  manifest,  that  the  visitor  lost 
his  severity  at  once,  and  said  quite  gently:  '  No,  she 
is  not  dead  ;  but  she  is  almost  insane  with  fright, 
and  has  been  so  exhausted  with  anxiety  and  tears, 
that  we  had  lost  all  hope  for  her  reason,  or  even 
for  her  life,  unless  I  could  find  you.  I  have  been 
through  the  lines,  was  delayed  by  the  loss  of  my 
passport,  and  it  is  now  five  weeks  since  I  saw  her. 
She  is  alive,  but — ' 

"  Young  Wetherell  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  turned 
on  his  father  like  a  madman.  '  How  dared  you?'  he 
demanded;  '  how  dared  you  keep  back  my  letters  ? 
You  have  killed  her.  You  have  murdered  her, 
poor,  delicate  girl,  with  anxiety  and  doubt  of  me.' 
And  then  with  set  teeth  and  white  lips  he  advanced 
upon  his  father,  his  arm  uplifted,  as  if  he  held  a 
sword,  and  with  a  sweep  which  would  have  severed 
chords  of  steel,  if  the  weapon  had  really  been  within 
his  grasp,  he  brought  his  arm  across  his  father's 
breast  and  sank  upon  the  floor,  senseless  and  still. 

"  Afterward,  when  he  revived,  he  had  no  recollec- 
tion of  what  had  occurred,  except  alone  the  fact 


U4  -A  Rusty  Ijink  in  the  Chain. 

that  for  many  weeks  previous  he  had  forgotten  ut- 
terly the  girl  who  was  to  be  his  wife,  whose  life 
and  love  were  all  his  world.  While  he  had  remem 
bered  everything  else,  had  carefully  attended  to  the 
smallest  details  of  daily  life,  the  link  of  memory 
that  held  the  fact  of  her  existence  had  been  coated 
with  a  rust  of  absolute  oblivion.  The  single  link 
in  all  the  chain  of  memory  that  had  failed  him  had 
been  the  one  the  nearest  to  his  heart — the  dearest 
one  of  all  ! 

"  They  were  married  two  months  later,  and  he  re- 
sumed command  of  his  regiment.  Through  an 
honorable  and  eventful  life  no  sign  of  mental  lapse 
ever  returned  ;  but  every  day  he  dreaded  it,  and 
watched  his  wife  and  children  as  a  man  might  do 
who  saw  a  creeping  monster  back  of  those  he  loved 
while  he  stood  paralyzed  and  dumb.  He  never 
seemed  to  fear  that  other  things  might  lose  their 
hold  upon  his  consciousness  ;  but  the  apprehension 
that  his  mind  would  slip  the  link  which  held  his 
wife,  and  leave  her  sick  and  faint  with  anxious 
fears,  which  he  alone  could  still,  constantly  haunted 
him. 

"  His  wounds  never  troubled  him  again.  He  died 
not  long  ago.  His  career  was  an  exceptionally 
brilliant  one.  You  would  know  him  if  I  had  given 
his  real  name,  for  it  was  in  the  public  ear  for 
years. 

"  There  were  but  six  persons  who  ever  knew  the 
history  of  his  case,  and  they  are  still  unable  to  ex- 
plain it — its  cause,  its  direction,  its  cure.     Or  is  it 


A  Rusty  Litik  in  the  Cliain.  1 1 5 

cured  ?  Will  his  children  be  subject  to  it  ?  Will 
it  take  the  same  form  ?  Was  it  caused  by  the 
wound  ?  by  the  fever  ?  Or  were  hereditary  condi- 
tions so  grouped  as  to  produce  this  mental  effect, 
even  if  there  had  been  no  wound — no  illness  ?  If 
the  latter,  will  it  be  transmitted  ?  These  questions 
come  to  me  with  renewed  force,  to-day,  as  I  hold  in 
my  hand  this  letter,  asking  me  to  give  the  family  his- 
tory of  Col.  George  Wetherell  for  the  use  of  physi- 
cians in  a  distant  city  who  are  now  treating  his  son. 
This  son  has  reached  the  precise  age  at  which 
his  father  had  the  strange  experience  of  which  I 
have  just  told  you. 

"There  is  a  hint  in  the  letter  which,  in  the  light  of 
the  father's  malady,  appears  to  a  physician  to  be 
of  peculiar  importance  from  a  medical  outlook. 

"We  shall  see,  we  shall  see." 

There  was  a  long  pause ;  then  he  asked  : 
"  Should  you,  a  layman,  look  to  the  wound  to  ex- 
plain the  condition  ?  Or  to  the  Castle  of  Heredity  ? 
Suppose  the  son's  malady  is  quite  similar — as  now 
appears — what  then?" 


£be  Boler  Ibouse  fll>£Ster£c 


"  What  would  you  do?  what  would  you  say  now,  if  you  were  in 
such  a  position?" — Thackeray. 

'■'■Thackeray  is  always  protesting  that  no  good  is  to  be  done  by 
blinking  the  truth.  Let  us  have  facts  out,  and  mend  what  is  bad 
ifive  can.'"— Trollope. 


THE  BOLER  HOUSE  MYSTERY. 


Mr.  John  Boler  had  been  in  the  hotel  business, 
as  he  phrased  it,  ever  since  he  was  born.  Before 
he  could  walk  he  had  been  the  "  feature  "  of  his 
father's  summer  hotel,  where  he  was  the  only  baby 
to  be  passed  around  and  hugged  into  semi-uncon- 
sciousness by  all  the  women  in  the  house.  Because 
of  the  scarcity  of  his  kind,  too,  he  was  subjected 
to  untold  agony  by  the  male  guests,  most  of  whom 
appeared  to  believe  that  the  chief  desire  of  his  in- 
fantile heart  was  to  be  tossed  skyward  from  hour 
to  hour  and  caught  in  upstretched  hands  as  he 
descended  with  a  sickening  sense  of  insecurity  and 
a  wild  hysterical  laugh.  In  these  later  years  he 
often  said  that  he  would  like  to  know  who  those 
summer  fiends  were  who  had  made  his  infancy  so 
full  of  narrow  escapes  from  sudden  and  violent 
death.  Finally  he  thought  he  had  revenge  at 
hand.  A  benevolent-looking  old  gentleman  came 
puffing  up  to  the  desk  of  the  Boler  House,  and, 
after  registering,  proceeded  to  question  the  genial 
proprietor  as  to  his  identity. 

"  Dear  me,  dear  me,"  he  puffed,  "  and  so  you  are 
the  son  of  old  John  Boler,  the  best  hotel-keeper 

119 


1 20  The  Boler  House  Mystery. 

the  sun  ever  shone  upon  !  Why,  I  remember  toss- 
ing you  up  to  the  rafters  under  the  porch  of  your 
father's  house  when  you  were  only  the  size  of  a 
baked  apple  and  mighty  nigh  as  measly  looking. 
Well,  well,  to  be  sure  you  had  grit  for  a  young  one. 
Never  got  scared.  Always  yelled  for  more.  I  be- 
lieve if  you  had  batted  your  soft  little  head  against 
the  roof  you'd  have  laughed  all  the  louder  and 
kicked  until  you  did  it  again,"  and  the  old  man 
chuckled  with  the  pleasure  of  age  and  retrospec- 
tion. 

"  Yes,  I  remember  well,"  said  Mr.  Boler,  casting 
about  in  his  own  mind  for  the  form  of  revenge  he 
should  take  on  this  man  now  that  he  was  to  have 
the  chance  for  which  he  had  so  longed  and  waited. 

His  first  thought  was  to  put  him  in  the  room 
next  to  the  three  sporting  men  who  played  poker 
and  told  questionable  stories  of  their  own  exploits 
after  two  o'clock  every  night,  but  that  hardly 
seemed  adequate.  The  room  adjoining  the  elevator 
popped  into  his  head.  Every  time  the  old  gentle- 
man fell  asleep  bang  would  go  that  elevator  door  or 
bzzzz  would  start  off  the  bell  so  suddenly  that  it 
would  leave  him  unnerved  and  frantic  in  the  morn- 
ing. But  what  was  that  ?  What  John  Boler 
yearned  for  was  to  make  the  punishment  fit  the 
crime,  and,  after  all  these  years  of  planning  and  wish- 
ing for  the  chance,  here  it  was,  and  he  felt  that 
he  could  think  of  nothing,  absolutely  nothing,  bad 
enough. 

So  with  a  fine  satire  which  was  wholly  lost  upon 


The  Boler  House  Mystery.  121 

his  victim,  Mr.  Boler  ordered  him  taken  to  the  very 
best  room  in  the  house,  and  made  up  his  mind  that 
after  disarming  all  suspicion  in  that  way  he  would 
set  about  his  revenge,  which  should  take  some  ex- 
quisitely torturous  form. 

All  this  had  run  through  his  mind  with  great 
rapidity  while  the  old  gentleman  talked.  Then 
Mr.  Boler  turned  the  register  around,  wrote  "  98  " 
opposite  the  name.  Said  he  should  be  delighted 
to  show  his  own  mettle  to  one  of  his  father's  old 
guests,  called  out  "  Front,"  and  transferred  his  at- 
tention to  a  sweet-faced  girl  who  stood  waiting  her 
turn  to  register. 

"A  small  room,  please,"  she  said  in  a  voice 
scarcely  above  a  whisper.  Mr.  Boler  knew  just 
what  it  meant  in  an  instant.  He  knew  that  she 
was  not  used  to  hotels — that  she  was  uncertain 
what  to  do,  and  that  she  wanted  her  living  to  cost 
her  as  little  as  possible.  She  was  evidently  a  lady, 
and  quite  as  evidently  from  some  small  town. 

"  Front,"  he  called  again.  "  Show  this  lady  to 
96.  Step  lively."  Front  grinned.  Ninety-six  was 
a  mere  closet  with  no  window  except  one  facing  a 
dark  shaft.  Indeed,  it  had  once  been  the  dressing- 
room  and  clothes  press  for  the  adjoining  suite,  and 
so  far  as  Front  could  remember  had  never  been 
used  as  a  sleeping  apartment  by  any  one  except  the 
valet  of  a  certain  French  gentleman  who  once  oc- 
cupied 98. 

"  Took  my  revenge  on  the  wrong  person  that 
time,"  mused  Mr.  Boler  as  he  saw  the  lady  enter 


122  The  Boler  House  Mystery. 

the  elevator.  "  Now  I  wonder  why  I  did  that  ?" 
But  Mr.  John  Boler  had  his  little  superstition,  as 
most  of  us  have,  and  whenever  he  was  moved  by  a 
perfectly  blind  impulse  to  do  a  thing,  he  always 
believed  that  "  something  would  come  of  it  sure," 
as  he  expressed  it.  "  Never  knew  it  to  fail.  Of 
course  I  don't  believe  in  such  things;  but — "  and 
then  he  would  laugh  and  go  on  believing  in  it  as 
implicitly  as  ever. 

All  day  he  brooded  over  what  he  should  do  to 
old  Winkle,  as  he  called  the  man  in  98,  and  as 
surely  as  his  mind  grew  exhausted  and  his  various 
plans  fell  through,  his  thoughts  would  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  timid  girl  in  the  next  room,  and  he 
would  smilingly  wink  to  himself  and  say,  "  Some- 
thing will  come  of  it,  something  will  come  of  it 
sure.  Never  put  a  guest  in  that  beastly  room  be- 
fore and  I  had  nothing  against  her.  Must  have 
been  him  It  was  after."  He  always  called  his 
blind  impulses  "  It  "  when  he  was  utilizing  them 
for  superstitious  purposes  or  to  quiet  his  reason. 

"  I'll  bet  that  girl  being  in  that  closet  will  be  the 
means  of  getting  me  even  with  old  Winkle  yet,  and 
she  is  not  used  to  city  hotels.  She'll  think  that  it 
is  all  right  and  she  will  most  likely  be  out  all  day. 
It's  not  so  bad  to  sleep  in  after  all.  Quietest  room 
in  the  house." 

The  next  morning  Mr.  Winkle  strolled  into  the 
office  and  harassed  Mr.  Boler  about  his  infancy, 
reminding  him  that  he  had  possessed  a  very  weak 
stomach.     "  And  who  wouldn't,"  thought  that  gen- 


The  Boler  House  Mystery.  123 

tleman  indignantly,  "if  he  was  pitched  about  like  a 
bale  of  hay  from  morning  till  night  by  every  fool 
that  got  hold  of  him  ?"  but  he  smiled  pleasantly 
and  said  no  doubt  he  had  been  very  much  like 
other  infants,  judging  from  the  way  he  grew  up. 
He  looked  upon  a  baby  as  the  embryonic  man,  and 
as  he  was  about  an  average  adult  male  biped  now, 
he  had  most  likely  been  very  close  to  an  average 
male  infant.  "  I  might  have  been  more,"  he  hinted 
darkly,  "  but  for  certain  idiotic  people,"  and  then 
he  laughed.  For  it  was  not  in  Mr.  John  Boler's 
nature  to  be  openly  unpleasant  to  any  one.  This 
was  the  secret  of  his  success  as  an  innkeeper. 

"  By  the  way,  Johnnie,"  said  old  Mr.  Winkle  late 
the  next  afternoon,  "  I  thought  I  heard  some  one 
sobbing  in  the  room  next  to  mine  last  night.  This 
morning  I  concluded  I  was  mistaken,  but  now  I'm 
sure  I  heard  it.  Anybody  sick  in  there  ?  I  tried 
the  door  that  leads  into  my  room  but  it  was  locked. 
It  sounds  like  a  woman's  voice.  It  always  did  tear 
the  very  heart  out  of  me  to  hear  a  woman  cry — " 
He  went  on  talking  but  Mr.  John  Boler  heard  no 
more.  His  heart  gave  a  wild  bound  of  delight. 
"It"  had  given  him  his  revenge.  He  would  let  the 
young  woman  stay  in  the  hotel  free  of  charge  as  long 
as  old  Winkle  was  in  the  house  if  only  she  would 
weep  and  sob  pretty  steadily.  "  '  Johnnie,'  by  gad," 
thought  he,  resenting  this  new  indignity  to  his 
name.  "  By  George,  what  luck  !"  And  then  he 
went  about  his  duties  with  a  new  spring  in  his  al- 
ways elastic  step.     At  the  lunch  hour  the  follow- 


1 24  The  Bolcr  House  Mystery. 

ing  day  he  glanced  into  the  dining-room,  and  sure 
enough,  there  sat  the  occupant  of  96,  and  her  eyes 
were  swollen  and  red.  At  almost  any  other  time 
this  would  have  disturbed  John  Boler,  but  now  it 
was  a  deep  delight  to  him. 

"  Had  a  spat  with  her  lover,  no  doubt,"  specu- 
lated he,  "  and,  by  Jove  !  it  came  at  a  lucky  time 
for  me.  I'd  pay  her  lover  to  keep  up  the  row  for 
three  weeks  if  I  could  get  at  him.  '  Weak  stomach,' 
'Johnnie,'  indeed  !"  And  he  went  back  to  the 
office  rubbing  his  hands  in  a  satisfied  way,  thinking 
that  old  Winkle  would  be  afraid  to  go  to  his  room 
that  night,  and  that  his  sleep  would  be  broken  by 
visions  of  a  weeping  woman  next  door,  even  if  she 
did  not  keep  him  awake  half  the  time  sobbing  be- 
cause Ralph  had  called  her  a  mean  thing  or  a 
proud  stuck-up  flirt,  and  hinted  darkly  that  she 
was  in  love  with  his  rival. 

Matters  had  gone  on  in  this  way  for  nearly  a 
week  and  Mr.  Winkle  had  fretted  and  fumed  and 
asked  for  another  room  two  or  three  times,  but  Mr. 
Boler  told  him  that  the  house  was  full  and  that 
there  wasn't  another  room  fit  to  offer  him  anyhow. 
He  said  that  he  would  change  the  young  lady's  room 
as  soon  as  he  could,  but  he  expected  her  to  leave 
every  day.  She  went  out  a  good  deal  and  wrote  a 
large  number  of  letters,  and  he  felt  sure  she  was  go- 
ing to  remain  only  a  day  or  two  longer.  He  apolo- 
gized and  explained  and  planned,  and  then  he 
would  chuckle  to  himself  the  moment  "old  Winkle's" 
back  was  turned  to  think  how  "  //  "  had  succeeded 


The  Boler  House  Mystery.  125 

in  getting  him  even  with  the  old  reprobate  without 
the  least  overt  act  on  his  part. 

But  the  eighth  morning  Mr.  Winkle  rebelled  out- 
right. He  said  that  he  would  wring  ths  girl's 
worthless  neck  if  he  could  get  at  her,  but  he  could 
not  and  would  not  bear  her  sobs  any  longer.  The 
night  before  they  had  been  worse  than  ever  and  he 
had  not  slept  a  wink  all  night  long.  At  last  Mr. 
Boler  promised  that  he  would  transfer  the  girl  to 
another  room  that  very  afternoon  if  she  did  not 
leave,  and  the  old  man  softened  at  once  and  said 
if  she  could  not  afford  to  pay  for  any  other  room 
he  would  pay  the  difference  and  she  need  never 
know  it. 

John  Boler  was  not  mercenary,  but  this  offer 
gave  him  keen  delight.  For-"  old  Winkle  "  would 
have  to  buy  his  relief  after  all.  He  thought  how 
willingly  a  certain  infant  of  his  memory  would  have 
paid  for  rest  and  quiet  too  when  it  was  helpless 
clay  in  the  hands  of  certain  old  imbeciles  he  knew 
of. 

At  2  p.m.  he  told  Front  to  go  up  to  96  and  tell 
the  young  lady  that  he  now  had  a  better  room  for 
her  that  would  cost  her  no  more  than  the  one  she 
now  occupied,  and  to  change  her  and  her  belong- 
ings to  342  forthwith.  In  five  minutes  Front  came 
back  as  white  as  a  cloth  and  said  that  the  young 
lady's  door  was  unlocked,  that  there  were  a  num- 
ber of  letters  on  the  table  and  that  she  was  dead. 

Mr.  John  Boler  dashed  from  behind  the  desk 
across  the  street  and  was   back    in   an    incredibly 


126  The  Boler  House  Mystery. 

short  space  of  time,  dragging  behind  him  the  dig- 
nified and  wealthy  physician  whose  office  faced  the 
hotel. 

At  this  stage  of  the  proceedings  he  cautioned 
the  employees  not  to  say  a  word  about  the  matter 
on  pain  of  instant  dismissal.  They  one  and  all 
promised,  and  then  proceeded  to  tell  the  first  re- 
porter who  dropped  in  that  a  young  lady  had  com- 
mitted suicide  upstairs  and  that  she  had  cried  out 
loud  for  a  week.  They  gave  a  full  description  of 
her  and  her  effects,  all  of  which  appeared  in  the 
5  o'clock  edition  of  the  paper,  duly  headlined  with 
her  name  and  certain  gratuitous  speculations  in  re- 
gard to  her  motive  for  self-destruction.  In  these  it 
was  darkly  hinted  that  she  was  no  better  than  she 
should  be,  but  now  that  she  was  dead  "we"  (the 
immaculate  young  gentlemen  of  the  press)  felt  dis- 
posed to  draw  a  veil  of  charity  over  her  past  and 
say  with  the  law  that  her  suicide  proved  her  in- 
sanity, and  that  her  mental  condition  might  also 
account  for  her  past  frailties. 

While  these  generous  young  gentlemen  were 
penning  their  reports  the  doctor  and  Mr.  John 
Boler  worked  over  the  poor  helpless  body  of  the 
unconscious  girl  in  the  dark  little  room  upstairs. 
Between  times  they  read  the  letters  on  the  table 
and  learned  the  old,  old  story — not  of  crime,  but 
of  misfortune.  No  work  had  offered,  and  she  must 
work  or  starve — or  sell  the  only  value  she  possessed 
in  the  sight  of  men.  One  or  two  of  the  answers 
to  her  advertisement  had  boldly  hinted  at  this,  and 


The  Boler  House  Mystery.  127 

when  her  little  stock  of  money  had  run  out  and 
the  little  stock  of  misfortune  had  swelled  into  a 
mountain,  and  the  little  pile  of  insults  had  in- 
creased until  she  felt  that  she  could  endure  life  no 
longer,  she  had  concluded  to  brave  another  world 
where  she  was  taught  to  believe  a  loving  Father 
awaited  her  because  she  had  been  good  and  true 
and  pure  to  the  last  in  spite  of  storms  and  disap- 
pointments and  temptations.  So  she  made  the 
wild  leap  in  the  dark,  confident  that  the  hereafter 
could  hold  nothing  worse,  and  believing  sincerely 
that  it  must  hold  something  better  for  her  and  her 
kind,  even  if  that  better  were  only  forgetfulness. 

Up  to  this  point  her  story  was  that  of  thousands 
of  helpless  girls  who  face  the  unknown  dangers  of 
a  great  city  with  the  confidence  of  youth,  and  that 
ill  training  and  ignorance  of  the  world  which  is 
supposed  to  be  a  part  of  the  charm  of  young 
womanhood.  She  had  not  registered  her  real 
name,  it  is  true;  but  this  was  because  she  intended 
to  advertise  for  work  and  have  the  replies  sent  to 
the  hotel,  and  somehow  she  thought  that  it  would 
be  easier  for  her  to  do  that  over  a  name  less  sacred 
to  her  than  her  mother's,  which  was  also  her  own. 
So  instead  of  registering  as  Fannie  Ellis  Worth  of 
Atlanta,  she  had  written  "  Miss  Kate  Jarvis"  and 
had  given  no  address  whatever.  This  latter  fact 
told  strongly  against  her  with  the  reporters.  They 
located  her  in  a  certain  house  on  Thirty-first  Street 
and  "  interviewed  '  the  madam,  who  gave  them  a 
picture  of  a  girl  who   had  once   been  there,  and  a 


128  The  Boler  House  Mystery. 

cut  of  this  picture  appeared  in  two  of  the  morning 
papers  with  the  fuller  account  of  the  suicide.  A 
beautiful  moral  was  appended  to  this  history  of 
the  girl's  life  "  which  had  now  come  to  its  appro- 
priate ending."  But  when  one  of  these  enterpris- 
ing young  gentlemen  of  the  press  called  to  get  the 
details  of  the  funeral  for  his  paper,  he  was  shocked 
to  learn  that  the  young  lady  was  not  dead  after  all, 
and  that  she  was  now  in  a  fair  way  to  recover. 
He  was  still  further  disgusted  when  neither  Mr. 
Boler  nor  the  attending  physician  would  submit  to 
an  interview  and  declined  to  allow  him  to  send  his 
card  to  the  girl's  room. 

Then  and  there  he  made  up  his  mind  that  if  he 
had  to  rewrite  that  two-column  report  to  fit  the 
new  developments  in  the  case,  he  would,  as  he  ex- 
pressed it,  make  John  Boler  and  pompous  Dr.  Ral- 
ston wish  that  they  had  never  been  born.  In- 
cident to  this  undertaking,  he  would  darkly  hint  at 
a  number  of  things  in  regard  to  the  girl  herself  and 
their  relations  with  her.  This  was  not  at  all  to 
make  her  wish  that  she  had  never  been  born  ;  but 
if  it  should  serve  that  purpose,  the  young  gentle- 
man did  not  f(  el  that  he  would  be  in  the  least  to 
blame — if,  indeed,  he  gave  the  matter  a  thought  at 
all,  which  he  very  likely  did  not. 

The  article  he  wrote  was  certainly  very  "  wide 
awake"  and  surprised  even  himself  in  its  ingenuity 
of  conjecture  as  to  the  motive  which  could  prompt 
two  such  men  as  John  Boler,  proprietor  of  the 
Boler  House,  and  Dr.   Ralston,  "whose  reputation 


The  Boler  House  Mystery.  129 

had  heretofore  been  above  suspicion,  to  place 
themselves  in  so  unenviable,  not  to  say  dangerous, 
a  position."  He  suggested  that  although  the  young 
woman  had  taken  her  case  out  of  the  jurisdiction 
of  the  coroner  by  not  actually  dying,  this  fact  did 
not  relieve  the  affair  of  certain  features  which  de- 
manded the  prompt  attention  of  the  police  court. 
The  matter  was  perfectly  clear.  Here  was  a  young 
woman  who  had  attempted  to  relieve  herself,  by 
rapid  means,  of  the  life  which  all  the  social  and 
financial  conditions  which  surrounded  her  had  com- 
bined to  take  by  a  slower  and  more  painful  process. 
If  she  had  succeeded,  the  law  held  that  she  was  of 
unsound  mind — that  she  was,  in  short,  a  lunatic — 
and  treated  her  case  accordingly  ;  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  if  she  failed,  or  if,  as  in  this  instance,  her 
effort  to  place  herself  beyond  want  and  pain  was 
thwarted  by  others,  then  the  law  was  equally  sure 
that  she  was  not  a  lunatic  at  all,  but  that  she  was  a 
criminal,  and  that  it  was  the  plain  duty  of  the 
police  judge  to  see  that  she  was  put  with  those  of 
her  class — the  enemies  and  outcasts  of  society. 

It  was  also  quite  clear  that  any  one  who  aided, 
abetted,  or  shielded  a  criminal  was  particeps  crim- 
z'm's,  and  that  unless  Mr.  John  Boler  and  Dr.  Ral- 
ston turned  the  young  offender  over  to  the  police 
at  once,  there  was  a  virtuous  young  reporter  on  the 
Daily  Screamer  who  intended  to  know  the  reason 
why. 

It  was  this  article  in  the  Screamer  which  first 
made  Mr.  Winkle  aware  of  the  condition  of  affairs 


1 30  The  Boler  House  Mystery. 

in  the  room  adjoining  his  own.  He  had  been  ab- 
sent from  the  hotel  for  some  hours,  and  had, 
therefore,  known  nothing  of  the  sad  happenings  so 
near  him.  He  dashed  down  into  the  office  with 
the  paper  in  his  hand  and  asked  for  Mr.  Boler;  but 
that  gentleman  was  not  visible.  It  was  said  that 
he  was  in  consultation  with  Dr.  Ralston  at  the 
office  of  the  latter,  whereupon  Mr.  Winkle  re-read 
the  entire  article  aloud  to  the  imperturbable  clerk 
and  expressed  himself  as  under  the  impression  that 
something  was  the  matter  with  the  law,  or  else  that 
a  certain  reporter  for  the  Screamer  was  the  most 
dangerous  lunatic  at  present  outside  of  the  legisla- 
ture. The  clerk  smiled.  A  young  man  leaning 
against  the  desk  made  a  note  on  a  tablet,  and  then 
asked  Mr.  Winkle  what  he  knew  of  the  case  and  to 
state  his  objections  to  the  law,  first  saying  which 
law  he  so  vigorously  disapproved.  The  clerk 
winked  at  Mr.  Winkle,  but  Mr.  Winkle  either  did 
not  see,  or  else  did  not  regard  the  purport  of  the 
demonstration,  and  proceeded  to  express  himself 
with  a  good  deal  of  emphasis  in  regard  to  a  condi- 
tion of  affairs  which  made  it  possible  to  elect  as  law- 
makers men  capable  of  framing  such  idiotic  measures 
and  employing  on  newspapers  others  who  upheld  the 
enactment.  But  before  he  had  gone  far  in  these 
strictures  on  public  affairs  as  now  administered  he 
espied  John  Boler  and  followed  him  hastily  upstairs. 
That  afternoon  Mr.  Winkle  almost  fell  from  his 
chair  when  he  saw  the  evening  edition  of  the 
Screamer   with    a   three-column    "interview"  with 


The  Boler  House  Mystery.  1 3 1 

himself.  It  was  headed,  "Rank  Socialism  at  the 
Boler  House.  A  Close  Friend  of  the  Offending 
Landlord  Lets  the  Cat  out  of  the  Bag.  A  Dangerous 
Nest  of  Law  Breakers.  John  Boler  and  Dr.  Ral- 
ston still  Defiant.  Backed  by  a  Man  Who  Ought  to 
Know  Better.  Shameless  Confession  of  one  of  the 
Arch  Conspirators.  The  Mask  torn  from  Old  Silas 
Winkle  Who  Roomed  Next  to  the  Would-be  Suicide. 
Will  the  Police  Act  Now  ?" 

When  Mr.  Winkle  read  the  article  appended  to 
these  startling  headlines,  he  descended  hastily  to  the 
office  floor  and  proceeded  to  make  some  remarks 
which  it  would  be  safe  to  assert  would  not  be  re- 
peated by  any  Sunday-school  superintendent — in 
the  presence  of  his  class — in  the  confines  of  the  State 
of  New  York.  John  Boler  was  present  at  the  time 
and  whispered  aside  to  Mr.  Winkle  that  a  reporter  for 
the  Screamer  and  five  others  from  as  many  different 
papers  were  within  hearing,  whereupon  Mr.  Winkle 
became  more  and  more  excited,  and  talked  with 
great  volubility  to  each  and  every  one  of  the  young 
men  as  they  gathered  about  him.  "  Adds  Blasphemy 
to  His  Other  Crimes,"  wrote  one  of  them  as  his  head- 
line, and  then  John  Boler  interfered. 

"  Look  here,  boys,"  said  he  pleasantly,  but  with 
a  ring  of  determination  in  his  voice,  "you  just  let 
Mr.  Winkle  alone.  This  sort  of  thing  is  all  new  to 
him,  and  he  had  no  more  to  do  with  that  girl  than 
if  his  room  had  been  in  Texas."  (The  reporters 
winked  at  each  other  and  one  of  them  wrote,  Con- 
nived at  by  the  Proprietor?)    "  /put  her  in  the  room 


1 32  The  Bolcr  House  Mystery. 

next  to  his.  /  helped  the  doctor  to  resuscitate  her. 
/  positively  refuse  to  give  you  her  real  name  and 
present  address,  although  I  know  both,  and  Mr. 
Winkle  does  not,  and  if  the  police  court  has  any 
use  for  me  it  knows  where  to  find  me.  Have  a 
cigar?"  Each  reporter  took  a  weed,  and  three  of 
them  went  to  the  office  of  Dr.  Ralston  to  complete 
their  records  as  soon  as  possible. 

"  I'm  sorry  all  this  has  happened  to  you  in  my 
house,  Mr.  Winkle,"  said  John  Boler,  as  they  stood 
alone  for  a  moment.  "  It  is  partly  my  fault,  too," 
he  added,  in  a  sudden  burst  of  contrition.  "  It" 
had  carried  his  revenge  further  than  he  had  in- 
tended. He  knew  how  the  old  man's  sudden  out- 
break of  righteous  indignation  would  go  against  him 
in  the  newspaper  reports  that  would  follow,  and 
John  Boler  was  kind-hearted  as  well  as  fearless. 

"  Good  Lord,  don't  you  worry  about  me,  John- 
nie !"  said  the  old  man,  craning  his  neck  to  watch 
the  retreating  forms  from  the  window.  "  But  those 
young  devils  have  gone  over  to  the  doctor's  office 
and  they'll  bully  him  into  telling  where  the  girl  is, 
and  then  they'll  bully  the  police  into  dragging  her 
into  court  yet.     Dear  me,  dear  me  !" 

"  Now,  don't  you  be  scared  about  that,  Mr. 
Winkle.  The  doctor  and  I  have  made  up  our 
minds  to  fight  this  thing  out.  We've  found  out  all 
about  the  girl  and  that  it  was  simply  a  case  of  utter 
despair.  It  was  a  question  of  death  by  slow  or  by 
quick  means.  Society,  law,  prescribed  the  slow 
method,  and  the  girl  herself  chose  the  rapid  one. 


The  Boler  House  Mystery.  133 

Well,  now,  as  long  as  she  was  to  be  the  sufferer  in 
either  case,  it  strikes  me  that  she  had  about  as  good 
a  right  to  a  voice  in  the  matter  as  the  rest  of  us. 
Dr.  Ralston  and  I  checkmated  her.  (I  can't  afford 
to  have  that  kind  of  thing  happen  in  the  hotel,  of 
course.)  But,  by  gad,  we're  not  going  to  let  them 
make  a  criminal  of  her.  All  the  circumstances 
combined  to  do  that  before  and  she  chose  death. 
Well,  we  stopped  her  efforts  in  that  line  too,  and 
now  the  court  proposes  to  put  the  finishing  touches 
on  society's  other  inhumanities  and  send  her  up 
for  it.  Why,  good  God,  man,  just  look  at  it !  In 
substance  that  girl  said,  'I'll  die  before  I'll  be 
forced  into  association  with  criminals,'  and  the 
court  says,  'You  shall  do  nothing  of  the  kind. 
Science  shall  doctor  you  up  and  we  will  send  you 
up.  Despair  is  a  crime.'  That  girl  tried  every  way 
she  knew  of  to  live  right.  She  failed.  No  work 
that  she  could  do  came  her  way.  Well,  now,  will 
you  just  tell  me  what  she  was  to  do  ?  You  know 
what  any  man  on  God's  earth  would  do  if  he  had 
been  situated  that  way  and  could  have  sold  his  vir- 
tue— in  the  sense  we  use  virtue  for  women.  Well, 
some  women  are  not  built  that  way.  They  prefer 
to  die.  Life  don't  mean  enough  of  happiness  to 
them  to  pay  for  the  rest  of  it — life  as  it  is,  I  mean. 
Well,  since  women  don't  have  anything  to  say 
about  what  the  laws  and  social  conditions  shall  be, 
it  strikes  me  that  the  situation  is  a  trifle  arbitrary, 
to  put  it  mildly.  We  make  laws  for  and  demands 
upon  women  that  no  man  on  earth  would  think  of 


134  The  Bolcr  House  Mystery. 

complying  with,  and  then  we  tell  'em  they  sha'n't 
even  die  to  get  away  from  the  conditions  we  im- 
pose and  about  which  they  are  not  allowed  a  word 
to  say.  To  tell  you  the  bald  truth  /';;/  ashamed 
of  it.  So  when  we  learned  that  girl's  story  we  just 
made  up  our  minds  that  since  we  had  taken  the 
liberty  to  keep  her  from  getting  out  of  the  world  by 
a  shorter  cut  than  the  one  usually  prescribed  in 
such  cases — starvation— that  we'd  just  take  the  ad- 
ditional liberty  of  keeping  her  from  being  hounded 
to  insanity  and  made  a  criminal  of  by  legal  verdict." 

Mr.  Winkle  gave  a  snort  that  startled  John  Boler, 
for  he  had  been  running  on  half  to  himself  during 
the  last  of  his  talk  and  had  almost  forgotten  that 
the  old  man  was  present.  When  he  heard  the  ex- 
plosion he  mistook  its  meaning  and  his  conscience 
gave  him  another  smart  twinge. 

"Yes,  I'm  sorry,  very  sorry,  Mr.  Winkle,  that  this 
trouble  has  come  to  you  in  my  house,  but  who  could 
have  foreseen  that — a — that  is  to  say — " 

"  Trouble  to  me  ? "  exclaimed  Mr.  Winkle. 
"  Trouble  to  me  ?  Who's  said  anything  about  any 
trouble  to  me  ?  Do  you  suppose  I  care  what  those 
young  scamps  say  about  me  in  the  papers?  Got  to 
make  a  living,  haven't  they  ?  Well,  society  doesn't 
object  to  their  making  a  living  by  taking  what  does 
not  belong  to  'em,  if  it  happens  to  be  a  man's  repu- 
tation or  a  woman's  chance  to  ever  make  an  honest 
living  again.  Little  thefts  like  that  don't  count. 
That  is  not  a  crime  ;  but  dear  me,  Johnnie,  do  you 
suppose  I  care  a  tinker's  dam  about  that,  so  far  as 


The  Boler  House  Mystery.  135 

/  go  ?  God  bless  my  soul,  if  the  dear  boys  can  sell 
their  three  columns  of  rot  about  me,  and  it  will  keep 
them  off  the  heels  of  some  poor  devil  that  it  might 
ruin,  why,  I'm  satisfied.  All  I've  got  to  say  to  you 
is,  if  they  arrest  you  I'll  go  bail,  and  if  they  fine 
you  I'll  pay  it,  and  if  they  jail  you — hang  it,  John- 
nie, I'll  serve  your  term,  that's  all." 

Mr.  Boler  laughed.  "  My  punishment  shall  all 
be  vicarious  then,  hey  ?  Good  idea,  only  it  won't 
work  in  every-day  life.  The  law  doesn't  let  other 
people  serve  out  your  term.  But  I'm  just  as 
much  obliged,  and — and — to  tell  you  the  truth, 
Mr.  Winkle,  I'm — that  is  to  say,  I  hope  you  will 
forgive  me — the  fact  is,  I  forgive  you  freely  for 
the  part  you  took  in  helping  to  addle  such  brains 
as  I  had  when  I  was  a  child.  There  is  my  hand. 
1  It '  went  a  little  too  far  this  time,  and — " 

Mr.  Winkle  took  off  his  glasses  and  polished 
them  carefully.  Then  he  placed  them  astride  his 
nose  and  gazed  thoughtfully  at  his  old  friend's  son 
for  fully  a  minute  before  he  said  a  word.  Finally 
he  took  the  extended  hand,  shook  it  solemnly, 
and  walked  slowly  away,  wondering  to  himself  if  it 
could  be  possible  that  hard-headed  old  John  Boler's 
son  was  touched  a  little  in  the  brain.  Mr.  Boler 
noticed  his  perplexed  expression  and  laughed 
merrily  to  himself  as  he  started  toward  the  ele- 
vator. Before  he  reached  it  he  turned  and  beck- 
oned to  Mr.  Winkle  to  follow  him.  On  the  third 
floor  they  were  joined  by  Dr.  Ralston. 

"  She  is  so  much  better  now,  Mr.  Winkle,"  ex- 


136  The  Boler  House  Mystery. 

plained  the  genial  hotel  man,  "  and  you  are  an  older 
man  than  either  the  doctor  or  I,  so  I  thought —  It 
just  struck  me  that  she  might  feel —  That  you  might 
like —  Oh,  damn  it,  would  you  like  to  go  up  to  see 
her  ?  We  are  going  now.  A  clergyman  has  called, 
and  if  she  wants  to  see  him  we  shall  not  stay  but  a 
minute  ;  but  as  there  is  no  woman  about,  as  she  is 
so  alone,  I  thought  perhaps  she  might  like  to  have 
an  older  man  come  with  us,  for  she  seems  to  be  a 
very  sensitive  girl.  She  has  been  silent  about  her- 
self so  far  ;  but  she  is  better  now,  and  we  want  to 
find  out  what  work  she  can  do,  and  have  a  place 
ready  for  her  when  she  is  able  to  get  about.  Per- 
haps she  will  talk  more  freely  to  you." 

The  old  gentleman  looked  perplexed,  but  made 
no  reply  until  they  were  out  of  the  elevator.  Then 
he  took  Mr.  Boler  by  the  arm  and  said  helplessly, 
"  I — I  am  a  bachelor,  you  know,  Johnnie,  and — " 

"  No  !"  laughed  Mr.  Boler.  "  Well,  confound  it, 
you  don't  look  it.  Anybody  would  take  you  for 
the  proud  father  of  a  large  brood.  She  will  think 
you  are  and  it  may  help  her.     Come  on." 

The  old  gentleman  entered  the  darkened  room 
last  and  sai  down  silently  in  the  deepest  shadow. 
The  doctor  stepped  to  the  bed  and  spoke  in  a  low 
tone.  A  white  face  on  the  pillow  turned  slowly,  so 
that  the  only  band  of  light  that  reached  in  from 
the  open  door  fell  full  upon  it.  Mr.  Winkle  shud- 
dered as  he  saw  for  the  first  time  the  delicate, 
pallid,  hopeless  face. 

"  A  priest  ?"  she  said  feebly,  in  answer  to  the 


The  Boler  House  Mystery.  1 37 

doctor.  "  Oh,  no.  Why  should  I  want  to  see  a 
priest  ?  You've  had  your  way.  You've  brought 
me  back  to  battle  with  a  world  wherein  I  only  now 
acknowledged  my  defeat."  Her  voice  trembled 
with  weakness  and  emotion,  but  she  was  looking 
steadily  at  the  doctor  with  great  wide  eyes,  in  which 
there  burnt  the  intensity  of  mental  suffering  and  a 
determination  to  free  her  mind  even  at  the  risk  of 
losing  the  good-will  of  those  who  had  intended  to 
be  kind  to  her.  "A  priest!  What  could  he  do? 
This  life  is  what  I  fear.  His  mission  is  to  deal 
with  other  worlds — of  which  I  know  already  what 
he  does — and  that  is  nothing.  Of  this  life  I  know, 
alas  !  too  much.  Far  more  than  he.  He  cannot 
help  me,  for  I  could  tell  him  much  he  cannot 
know,  of  suffering  and  fortitude  and  hope  laid  low 
at  last,  without  a  refuge  even  in  cloistered  walls.  I 
know  what  he  would  say.  His  voice  would  tremble 
and  he  would  offer  sympathy  and  good  advice — 
and,  maybe,  alms.  These  are  not  what  I  want  or 
need.  I  am  not  very  old — just  twenty-two — but  I 
have  thought  and  thought  until  my  brain  is  tired, 
and  what  good  could  it  do  for  him  to  sit  beside  me 
here  and  say  in  gentle  tones  that  it  is  very  sad  ? 
No  doubt  that  he  would  tell  me,  too,  how  wicked 
I  have  been  that  I  should  choose  to  die  by  my  own 
hand  when  life  had  failed  me." 

She  smiled  a  little,  and  her  wan  face  lit  from 
within  was  beautiful  still  in  spite  of  its  pallor. 
The  doctor  murmured  something  about  natural 
sympathy,  and  Mr.  Boler  remarked  that  men  who 


138  The  Bolcr  House  Mystery. 

were  fortunate  would  gladly  help  those  who  were 
in  distress  if  only  they  knew  in  time.  She  did  not 
appear  to  heed  them,  but  presently  went  on  as 
though  her  mind  were  on  the  clergymen  below  wait- 
ing to  see  her. 

"  To  feel  that  it  is  sad  is  only  human;  but  what 
is  to  be  done  ?  That  is  the  question  now.  What 
is  to  be  done  for  suffering  in  this  world  ?  It  is  life 
that  is  hard  to  bear,  not  death.  Sympathy  with 
the  unfortunate  is  good.  Kind  words  and  gentle 
tones  as  your  priest  recounts  their  woes  are  touch- 
ing. Yes,  and  when  they  are  drawn  to  fit  the 
truth  would  melt  a  heart  of  stone;  but  unless 
action  wings  the  sympathy  and  dries  the  tears,  the 
object  of  his  tenderness  is  in  nowise  bettered — 
indeed,  is  injured.  Why  ?  Because  he  lulls  to 
sleep  man's  conscience  and  thereby  gives  relief 
from  pangs  that  otherwise  had  found  an  outlet 
through  an  open  purse.  And  when  I  say  an  open 
purse  I  do  not  speak  of  charity,  that  double  blight 
which  kills  the  self-respect  in  its  recipient  and 
numbs  the  conscience  of  the  '  benevolent'  man 
who  grasps  the  utmost  penny  here  that  he  may  give 
with  ostentation  there,  wounding  the  many  that  he 
may  heal  the  few.  All  this  was  safe  enough,  no 
doubt,  while  Poverty  was  ignorant,  for  ignorance 
is  helpless  always;  but  now — "  There  was  a 
pause.  She  raised  her  head  a  little  from  the  pil- 
low and  a  frightened  look  crept  into  her  eyes — 
"  but  now  the  poor  are  not  so  ignorant  that  it  will 
long  be  safe  to  play  at  cross  purposes  with  suffer- 


The  Boler  House  Mystery.  1 39 

ing  made  too  intelligent  to  drink  in  patient  faith 
the  bitter  draughts  of  life  and  wait  the  crown  of 
gold  he  promises  hereafter — and  wears,  mean- 
while, himself.  A  little  joy  on  earth,  they  think, 
will  not  bedim  the  lustre  of  a  life  that  is  to  come — 
if  such  there  be.  You  see  I've  thought  a  little  in 
these  wretched  days  and  months  just  past."  She 
was  silent  again  for  a  moment.  A  bitter  smile 
crossed  her  face  and  vanished.  The  doctor  of- 
fered her  a  powder  which  she  swallowed  without 
a  word.  John  Boler  stepped  to  the  table  and 
poured  out  a  glass  of  wine,  but  when  he  held  it 
toward  her  she  shook  her  head  and  closed  her 
eyes  a  moment.  Then  she  spoke  again  as  if  no 
break  had  checked  her  thought.  "  Oh,  no  ;  I  do 
not  care  to  see  your  priest.  The  poor  no  longer 
fail  to  note  his  willingness  to  risk  the  needle's  eye 
with  camel's  back  piled  high  with  worldly  gain. 
If  he  may  enter  thus,  why  may  not  they  with  sim- 
pler train  and  fewer  trappings  ?  The  poor  are 
asking  this  to-day  of  prince  and  priest  alike.  No 
answer  comes  from  either.  Evasion  does  not  sat- 
isfy. I  ask,  but  no  one  answers.  The  day  once 
was  when  silence  passed  for  wisdom.  That  day  is 
gone.  To-day  we  are  asking  why  ?  and  why  ?  and 
why  ?  no  longer,  when  ?  And  so  the  old  reply, 
'  hereafter,'  does  not  fit  the  query.  Why,  not 
when,  is  what  we  urge  to-day,  and  your  replies 
must  change  to  fit  the  newer,  nearer  question. 
When  I  say  your  replies,  I  do  not  mean  you,  doc- 
tor, nor  your  friend.     You  two  meant  kindly  by 


140  The  Boler  House  Mystery. 

me.  Yes,  I  know.  I  am  not  claiming  that  you 
are  at  fault,  nor  they — the  fortunate — the  prince 
and  priest.  I  understand.  Blind  nature  took  her 
course  and  trod  beneath  her  cruel  feet  the  mil- 
lions who  were  born  too  weak  to  struggle  with  the 
foes  they  found  within  themselves  and  in  their 
stronger  brothers.     I  know,  I  know." 

She  lay  back  on  the  pillow  and  closed  her  eyes 
wearily.  Mr.  Winkle  drew  near  and  stood  behind 
the  doctor's  chair,  still  keeping  in  the  shadow,  but 
watching  her  pale  face  with  an  intensity  born  of  a 
simple  nature  easy  to  stir  and  quick  to  resolve. 
The  doctor  touched  her  pulse  with  a  light  finger 
and  gravely  nodded  his  head  as  he  glanced  at  his 
watch.  Her  heavy  eyelids  did  not  lift  but  her 
voice  broke  the  silence  again.  There  was  a  ca- 
dence in  it  that  gave  a  solemn  thrill  to  the  three 
men  as  they  listened,  the  doctor  watching  with 
professional  interest  the  effect  of  the  powder  he 
had  given;  the  other  two  waited,  expecting  they 
knew  not  what. 

"  The  ignorance  and  cruelty  of  all  the  past,  the 
superstitious  fears,  the  cunning  prophecies,  the 
greeds  and  needs  of  men,  joined  hands  and 
marched  triumphant.  They  did  not  halt  to  ask 
the  fallen  what  had  borne  them  down.  They  did 
not  silence  bugle  blasts  of  joy  where  new-made 
graves  were  thick.  No  silken  flag  was  lowered  to 
warm  to  life  the  shivering  forms  of  comrades  over- 
come and  fallen  by  the  way.  The  strong  marched 
on  and  called  themselves  the  brave.     Sometimes 


The  Boler  House  Mystery.  141 

they  were.  But  other  times  the  bravest  had  gone 
down,  plucked  at,  perchance,  by  wife  or  child  or 
friend  whose  sorrow  or  distress  reached  out  and 
twined  itself  about  the  strong  but  tender  heart 
and  held  it  back  until  the  foot  lost  step,  and  in 
the  end  the  eye  lost  sight  of  those  who  only  now 
had  kept  him  company." 

She  lifted  her  small  white  hand  and  pointed  as 
if  to  a  distant  battlefield,  but  her  eyes  remained 
closed.  The  doctor  glanced  uneasily  at  his  watch 
and  took  her  other  wrist  in  his  fingers  again. 

"  The  next  battalion  trampled  him.  The  priest 
bent  low  and  whispered  '  over  there,  hereafter,'  and 
slipped  the  treasure  of  the  fallen  hero  beneath  his 
ample  robe  to  swell  the  coffers  of  the  church,  since 
dead  men  need  no  treasures." 

iler  voice  was  infinitely  sad  but  she  laughed  a 
little  and  opened  her  eyes.  They  fixed  themselves 
upon  the  silvered  head  of  Mr.  Winkle  standing  be- 
hind the  doctor's  chair. 

"  Perhaps  I  shock  you.  I  do  not  mean  to,  but 
I  have  thought  and  thought  these  last  few  wretched 
months,  and  looking  at  the  battlefields  of  life 
backward  through  all  the  ages,  I  thought  I  saw  at 
night,  in  camp,  the  priest  and  conqueror  meet  be- 
side the  campfire  and  council  for  the  next  day's 
march.  I  thought  I  heard  the  monarch  say,  '  I  go 
before  and  cleave  my  way.  You  follow  me  and 
gather  up  two  things — the  spoils  I  miss  and  all  the 
arrows  of  awakened  scorn  and  wrath  embedded 
in  the  breasts  of  those  of  our  own  ranks  who  fall 


142  The  Boler  House  Mystery. 

or  are  borne  down,  lest  they  arise  and  overtake  us 
while  we  sleep  and  venge  themselves  on  us.  Tell 
them  to  wait.  Their  time  will  come.  Tell  them 
/clear  the  way  for  them,  andjjw  forgive  a  hatred 
which  you  see  is  growing  up  within  their  wicked 
breasts.  Quiet,  soothe,  and  shame  them  into 
peace.  Assure  them  that  hereafter  they,  not  we, 
shall  have  the  better  part.  Gain  time.  Lay 
blame  to  me  if  need  be;  but  always  counsel  pa- 
tience, waiting,  acquiescence,  peace,  submission  to 
the  will  of  God — your  will  and  mine.  Your  task  is 
easy.  No  danger  lies  therein.  I  take  the  risk  and 
share  with  you  the  glory  and  the  gain.'  I  heard 
the  priest  disclaim  all  greed  of  gain  and  go  to  do 
his  part  as  loyal  subject  and  as  holy  man.  I  saw 
all  this  and  more  before  I  took  the  last  resolve  you 
balked.  You  meant  it  kindly,  doctor,  yes,  I  know, 
but  I  am  very  tired  and  what  is  there  ahead  for 
me,  or  such  as  I,  on  battlefields  like  these  ?" 

No  one  ventured  a  reply.  She  closed  her  eyes 
and  waited.  The  doctor  took  another  powder 
from  his  case  and  held  it  above  her  lips.  She 
smiled  and  swallowed  it. 

"We  take  our  powders  very  docilely,"  she  said, 
with  a  bitter  little  laugh  as  the  wine-glass  left  her 
hand  and  Mr.  Boler's  finger  touched  her  own.  He 
noticed  that  hers  was  very  cold. 

"  They  used  to  make  us  sleep  in  the  good  old 
days  of  priest  and  monarch,  but  our  nerves  are 
wrong  just  now.  Our  powders  only  make  us  think 
the  more  and  have  strange  visions." 


The  Boler  House  Mystery.  143 

Dr.  Ralston  glanced  at  Mr.  Boler  and  nodded 
his  head  mysteriously.  The  powder  was  begin- 
ning to  work,  he  thought,  for  she  had  reverted  to 
the  old  vision,  and  talked  as  if  she  were  in  a 
dream.  "  That  way  it  was,  another  way  it  is,  and 
still  another  will  be,"  she  was  saying.  "  To-day 
the  honest  poor,  the  hampered  weak,  are  defeated, 
dazed,  and  some  of  us  are  hopeless.  Others  there 
are  who  cling  to  hope  and  life  and  brood  on  ven- 
geance. That  is  your  danger,  gentlemen,  for  days 
that  are  to  come.  You  will  have  to  change  your 
powders.  The  old  prescriptions  do  not  make  us 
sleep.  We  think,  and  think,  and  think.  We  strain 
our  nerves  and  break  our  hearts,  for  what  ?  A  life 
as  cold  and  colorless  and  sad  as  death  itself — to 
some  of  us  far  sadder — and  yet  you  will  not  even 
let  us  die.  Again  we  ask  you,  why  ?  There  is  no 
place  on  earth  for  such  as  we,  unless  we  will  be 
criminals.  That  is  the  hinge  whereon  the  future 
turns.  How  many  will  prefer  the  crime  to  want  ? 
What  dangers  lie  behind  the  door  that  now  is 
swinging  open  ?  Intelligence  has  taught  us  scorn 
for  such  a  grovelling  lot,  has  multiplied  our  needs, 
and  turned  the  knife  of  suffering  in  quivering 
wounds  no  longer  deadened  by  the  anaesthetics  of 
ignorant  content  with  life  or  superstitious  fear  of 
death.  The  door  is  swinging  on  the  hinge.  The 
future  has  to  face  creatures  the  past  has  made  like 
demons.  Some,  like  myself,  behind  the  door,  who 
do  not  love  mere  life,  will  turn  the  sharpened  dag- 
ger on  themselves.     But  there  are  others — " 


144  2^  Bolcr  House  Mystery. 

Her  voice  sank.  The  three  men  thought  that 
she  had  fallen  asleep  at  last.  The  doctor  drew  a 
long  satisfied  breath  and  consulted  his  watch  for 
the  fourth  time,  making  a  mental  note  for  future 
use  in  giving  the  drug  whose  action  he  was  watch- 
ing. He  started  and  frowned,  therefore,  when  her 
voice  broke  the  silence  again. 

"  Others  there  are,  in  spite  of  pain  and  anguish, 
in  spite  of  woe  and  fear,  who  cling  to  life — who 
read  in  eyes  they  worship  the  pangs  of  hunger, 
cold,  and  mental  agony.  Where  will  their  ven- 
geance go  ?     Who  knows  ?" 

She  opened  her  great  eyes  and  looked  first  at 
one  and  then  at  another,  and  repeated,  "  Who 
knows  ?" 

Again  there  was  no  reply.  After  a  long  pause 
Mr.  Winkle  said  gently: 

"  There  is  a  place  in  life  for  girls  like  you.  I 
shall  charge  myself  with  it.  You  shall  find  work 
and  joy  yet,  my  child.  Now  go  to  sleep.  Be 
quiet.  We  have  let  you  talk  too  long.  Stop  think- 
ing sadly  now.  You  think  too  much.  You  think 
too  much." 

She  closed  her  eyes  quickly  and  there  was  a 
tightening  of  the  lips  that  left  them  paler  than  be- 
fore. Then  a  tear  rolled  slowly  down  her  temple. 
Before  it  reached  the  pillow  the  doctor  bent  for- 
ward and  dried  it  softly  with  his  silk  handkerchief. 
She  opened  her  eyes  wide  at  the  touch.  "  '  Be 
quiet?'"  she  repeated,  "  '  stop  thinking  ?'  Oh,  yes; 
I  will  be  quiet,  but  the  rest,  the  others  ?     Those 


The  Bolcr  House  Mystery.  145 

with  whom  you  do  not  charge  yourself,  who  find 
no  work,  no  joy  ?  Will  they  be  quiet,  will  they 
stop  thinking?  Oh,  yes;  I  can  be  quiet,  very 
quiet,  but  the  rest,  the  rest  ?  The  others  who 
think  too  much — all,  all?" 

There  was  a  wild  look  in  her  dry  eyes.  The 
doctor  touched  her  wrist  again  and  said  softly  to 
the  men  beside  him,  "  It  is  working  now.  She 
will  sleep.  But  the  shock  of  all  her  trouble  has 
left  her  mind  unhinged,  poor  child.  '  The  rest  ? 
the  others  ?'  We  cannot  care  for  all  the  countless 
poor.  Her  brain  is  surely  touched,  poor  child, 
poor  child.  How  can  we  tell  whether  the  others 
will  stop  thinking,  or  how,  or  when  ?  Her  mind 
was  wandering,  and  now  she  sleeps,  poor  child. 
Come  out.     She  is  best  alone." 

They  closed  the  door  gently  behind  them  and 
stood  a  moment  in  awkward  silence  outside,  each 
one  afraid  to  speak  and  yet  ashamed  of  his  own 
tender  helplessness.  At  last  Mr.  Winkle  looking 
steadily  in  the  crown  of  his  hat,  said  huskily,  "By 
gad,  boys,  there  is  something  rotten  in  the  state 
of  Denmark."  They  all  three  laughed  with  an 
effort,  but  kept  their  eyes  averted. 

"It  is  a  rat  in  the  wainscoting  of  the  store- 
room," said  John  Boler,  with  a  desperate  attempt 
to  regain  his  old  manner  and  tone,  "  and  I've  got 
to  go  and  look  after  it  or  there'll  be  the  devil  to 
pay  with  the  Boler  House."  And  he  ran  down 
the  stairs  three  steps  at  a  time  heartily  ashamed  of 
his  own  remark,  but  determined  not  to  allow  the 


146  The  Boler  House  Mystery. 

tears  to  show  themselves  either  in  his  eyes  or  voice, 
and  feeling  that  his  only  safety  was  in  flight. 

But  Mr.  Winkle  had  not  stood  silently  behind 
the  doctor's  chair  all  that  time  for  nothing,  and  if 
his  nature  was  somewhat  light,  and  if  he  had  taken 
life  so  far  as  something  of  a  jest,  he  was  by  no 
means  without  a  heart.  He  did  not  now  trouble 
himself  very  greatly  about  the  tangled  problems  of 
existence,  but  he  felt  quite  equal  to  dealing  with 
any  given  case  effectively  and  on  short  notice. 
With  systems  he  was  helpless,  with  individuals  he 
could  deal  promply.  Therefore  he,  in  common 
with  the  doctor  and  Mr.  Boler,  and,  indeed,  with 
most  of  us,  occupied  himself  with  the  girl  he  saw 
suffering  and  in  need. 

When  she  had  cried  out,  "But  the  rest,  the  oth- 
ers, what  of  them  ?"  he  had  said  nothing,  because 
he  had  nothing  to  say.  He  was  vaguely  aware 
that  when  the  smallpox  broke  out  on  one  of  Dr. 
Ralston's  patients  that  astute  practitioner  did  not 
essay  to  treat  each  individual  pustule  separately  as 
the  whole  of  the  disease  and  so  devote  his  entire 
skill  and  mind  to  each  in  turn  until  it  was  cured. 
But  then  he  could  not  undertake  to  cure  the  whole 
human  race  of  its  various  social  ailments  any  more 
than  Dr.  Ralston  could  hope  to  look  after  all  of 
its  physical  pains.  So  Mr.  Winkle  took  this  one 
little  social  pustule  upstairs  as  his  particular  charge, 
and  in  his  own  peculiar  way  went  about  securing 
better  conditions  for  her,  leaving  the  "  others  who 
think  too  much  "  to  somebody  else,  or  to  fate,  as 


The  Boler  House  Mystery.  147 

the  case  might  be.  Therefore,  when  Mr.  Winkle 
reached  the  street  door  and  met  an  officer  of  the 
law  who  had  come  prepared  to  learn  the  where- 
abouts of  the  would-be  suicide  or  else  take  Mr. 
John  Boler  and  Dr.  Ralston  into  custody,  the  old 
gentleman  made  up  his  mind  to  begin  his  part  in 
the  future  proceedings  without  further  delay. 

Unknown  to  Mr.  Winkle  himself,  literature  had 
lost  a  great  novelist  when  he  had  gone  into  the 
mercantile  business,  and  the  surprises  which  he 
now  sprang  upon  the  policeman  were  no  less  as- 
tonishing and  interesting  to  himself  than  they  were 
to  that  astute  guardian  of  the  public  morals. 

"  Want  to  know  where  she  is,  do  you  ?  Well, 
don't  worry  Johnnie  Boler  any  more.  They've 
already  got  him  so  his  mind  is  a  little  affected. 
I'll  tell  you  all  about  that  girl.  Her  name  is  Estelle 
Morris.  She  worked  for  me  for  nine  years  as  a 
nursery  governess.  Last  month  my  youngest  child 
died,  and  it  upset  Estelle  so  that  she  has  been  out  of 
her  head  ever  since.  I  thought  if  I'd  bring  her  to 
the  city  maybe  she  might  get  over  it,  but  she  didn't, 
and  the  doctor  gave  her  some  stuff  and  she  took  a 
double  dose  by  mistake,  and  all  the  row  came  from 
that  and  the  long  tongues  of  the  servants,  pieced 
out  by  the  long  pencils  of  the  reporters.     See!" 

"  Is  that  so  ?"  exclaimed  the  officer.  "  Where  is 
she  now?" 

Mr.  Winkle  had  not  thought  of  that,  and  he  did 
not  know  exactly  what  to  say;  but  he  agreed  to 
produce  her  in  court  on  the  following  day  if  so 


148  The  Boler  House  Mystery. 

ordered,  and  there  the  matter  dropped  for  the 
moment. 

That  evening  there  appeared  in  a  paper  this 
"want:"  "A  good-looking  young  woman  who  is 
willing  to  lie  like  a  pirate  for  the  space  of  one  hour 
for  the  sum  of  $50.  May  have  to  go  to  court." 
The  number  of  handsome  girls  who  were  anxious 
to  lend  the  activity  of  their  tongues  for  the  pur- 
pose named  and  the  amount  stipulated  was  quite 
wonderful.  One  particularly  bright  young  miss 
remarked  that  she  had  been  in  training  for  just 
that  position  for  years.  She  was  confidential  cor- 
respondent for  a  broker.  Mr.  Winkle  accepted  her 
on  the  spot. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  "  look  solemn  and  sad.  That 
is  right.  You  do  it  first  rate.  Whatever  I  tell 
about  you  you  are  to  stick  to.     Understand  that?" 

"  Perfectly.  Years  of  practice,"  she  responded, 
with  entire  simplicity  and  without  a  suspicion  of 
humor. 

"  Your  name  is  Estelle  Morris,  and  you  have 
been  the  governess  of  my  children  for  nine  years. 
How  old  are  you  ?" 

"  Nineteen,"  said  Estelle  Morris  demurely. 

"  Good  gracious,  girl,  what  could  you  teach  at 
ten  years  of  age  ?  You've  got  to  be  older.  Take 
the  curl  out  of  your  hair  in  front  and  put  on  a 
bonnet  with  strings.  I  heard  my  niece  say  that 
made  her  look  ten  years  older.  Mind  you,  you  are 
not  a  day  under  twenty-six.     Not  a  day." 

"  All  right,"  said  Estelle  Morris  thoughtfully. 


The  Boler  House  Mystery.  149 

"  You  are  to  look  sick,  too,  and — " 
"  Oh,  I  can  fix  that  easy  enough.     I'll — " 
"  Well,  then  fix  it  and  come  back  here  at  exactly 
two  o'clock  this  afternoon." 

At  the  appointed  hour,  Mr.  Winkle  met  Miss 
Estelle  Morris  and  took  her  with  great  dignity  and 
care  to  the  Boler  House,  where  he  was  joined  by 
another  gentleman — an  officer  of  the  law — and  the 
three  started  out  together. 

"  The  examination  was  strictly  private  in  defer- 
ence to  the  wishes  of  the  parties  first  implicated, 
John  Boler  and  Dr.  Ralston,  and  because  it  is  now 
believed  that  the  girl  is  more  sinned  against  than 
sinning,"  wrote  the  reporter  for  the  morning  rival 
of  the  Screamer.  "It  is  the  object  of  justice  to 
help  the  erring  to  start  anew  in  life  wherever  that 
line  of  action  is  consonant  with  the  stern  necessi- 
ties of  the  blind  goddess.  Neither  of  the  male 
accomplices  appeared  in  the  case,  but  Mr.  Silas 
Winkle — whose  name  has  figured  somewhat  con- 
spicuously in  the  matter — produced  the  principal, 
who,  it  must  be  confessed,  is  pretty  enough  to 
account  for  all  the  chivalry  which  has  been  dis- 
played in  her  behalf.  She  confessed  to  twenty-six 
years  of  single  wretchedness,  although  she  could 
easily  pass  for  a  year  or  two  younger.  It  would 
appear  that  she  had  lived  in  Mr.  Winkle's  family 
for  nine  years  as  governess  to  his  children  and 
came  to  the  city  with  him  about  two  weeks  ago. 
The  justice  accepted  this  explanation  of  the  rela- 
tions existing  between  them,  and  that  there  was  no 


1 50  The  Boler  House  Mystery. 

attempt  at  suicide  at  all,  but  only  an  accidental 
overdose  of  a  remedy  prescribed  by  Dr.  Ralston, 
which  explained  satisfactorily  the  doctor's  connec- 
tion with  the  unsavory  case,  and  places  him  once 
more  in  the  honorable  position  from  which  this  un- 
fortunate affair  so  nearly  hurled  him.     In  short,  the 
justice  said  in  substance,  '  not  guilty,  and  don't  do 
it  any  more.'     The  young  woman  bowed  modestly, 
and  Silas  Winkle  led  her  from  the  court-room  a 
sadder,  and,  let  us  hope,  a  wiser  woman.     Such  as 
she  must  have  much  to  live  for.     Many  a  man  has 
braved  death  for  a  face  less  lovely  than  hers.     This 
ends  the  '  Boler  House  Mystery,'  which,  after  all, 
turns  out  to  be  only  a  tempest  in  a  teapot,  with  a 
respectable  father  of  a  family  and  his  children's 
governess  for  dramatis  persona  and  a  fresh  young 
reporter  on  a  certain  sensational  morning  contem- 
porary as  general  misinformer  of  the  public  as  usual." 
This  was  headlined,  "  Exploded — Another  Fake  by 
Our  Esteemed  Contemporary." 

That  night  John  Boler  rubbed  his  eyes  when  he 
read  the  report.  "  I  thought  you  were  a  bachelor, 
Mr.  Winkle,"  said  he,  "  and  here  you  produce  in 
court  a  governess — " 

"  I  am,"  said  Mr.  Winkle,  laughing,  and  then  he 
showed  his  "  want"  advertisement.  "That  is  the 
whole  case,  Johnnie,  my  boy,  but  it  is  all  over  now. 
Don't  you  worry  ;  it  might  go  to  your  head  again. 
You  saved  the  girl  and  I  saved  you,  and  it  only  cost 
me  $50.  I'd  pay  that  any  time  to  get  ahead  of  the 
Screamer,  and  I  rather  think  I  salted  that  enterpris- 


The  Boler  House  Mystery.  1 5 1 

ing  sheet  down  this  time,  don't  you  ?  But  what  is 
to  become  of  that  girl?"  added  he,  without  waiting 
for  a  reply  to  his  first  question.  "  You've  taken 
the  liberty  to  save  her  life,  which  she  had  decided 
she  did  not  want  under  existing  circumstances. 
Has  she  simply  got  to  go  over  the  same  thing  again  ? 
I  told  her  that  I'd  look  after  her,  but  I  don't  see 
how  in  thunder  I'm  going  to  do  it.  She  won't  take 
money  from  me  and  Fve  got  nothing  for  her  to  do. 
Is  there  nothing  ahead  of  her  but  a  coffin  or  a 
police  court  ?" 

"  For  this  individual  girl,  yes.  Dr.  Ralston  has 
already  secured  work  for  her;  but  for  all  the  thou- 
sands of  her  kind — "  John  Boler's  voice  trembled 
a  little  and  he  stopped  speaking  to  hide  it.  He  in 
common  with  most  men  was  heartily  ashamed  of 
his  better  nature. 

"For  all  the  thousands  of  her  kind,"  broke  in 
Mr.  Winkle,  "  there  are  just  exactly  three  roads 
open — starvation,  suicide,  or  shame,  with  the  courts, 
the  legislature,  and  the  newspapers  on  the  side  of 
the  latter.  I  just  tell  you,  Johnnie,  it  makes  my 
blood  boil.  I — I  don't  see  any  way  out  of  it — none 
at  all.     That  is  the  worst  of  it." 

"  I  do,"  said  Mr.  Boler. 

"  You  do  /"  exclaimed  Mr.  Winkle  excitedly,  and 
then  looked  hard  at  his  old  friend's  son  to  see  if  he 
had  gone  crazy  again. 

"  Yes,  I  do.  Those  same  newspapers  you  are  so 
down  on  will  do  it.  They're  bound  to.  The  boys 
go  wrong  sometimes,  as  they  did  in  this  case  ;  but 


152  The  Boler  House  Mystery. 

that  only  makes  sensible  people  indignant,  and, 
after  all,  it  called  attention  to  the  law  that  makes 
such  things  possible.  More  light  on  the  laws. 
That's  the  first  thing  we  want,  and  no  matter 
which  side  of  a  question  the  papers  take,  we  are 
bound  to  get  that  in  the  long  run.  Silence  is  the 
worst  danger.  We  get  pretty  mad  at  the  boys  if 
they  write  what  we  don't  like,  but  that  isn't  half  so 
dangerous  as  if  they  didn't  write  at  all.     See  ?" 

Mr.  Winkle  turned  slowly  away  and  shook  his 
head  as  he  murmured  to  himslf :  "  Who  would  have 
believed  that  old  John  Boler  would  have  been  the 
father  of  a  lunatic  ?  Dear  me,  dear  me.  I'm  going 
back  to  Meadville  before  I  get  touched  in  the  head 
myself."  And  he  started  to  his  room  to  pack  his 
valise.     John  Boler  followed  him  to  the  elevator. 

"  I  don't  blame  you  for  feeling  pretty  mad  about 
all  the  stuff  they  put  in  the  Screamer  about  you  ; 
but — oh,  the  boys  mean  all  right — " 

"  So  does  the  devil,"  broke  in  the  old  man.  But 
Mr.  Boler  gave  no  evidence  of  noticing  the  inter- 
ruption nor  of  observing  the  irascibility  of  his 
guest. 

"  The  trouble  is  with  the  system,"  he  went  on, 
entering  the  elevator  after  Mr.  Winkle.  "  Why, 
just  look  at  it,  man.  What  I  say  or  do,  if  it  is  of  a 
public  nature,  I'm  responsible  for  to  the  public. 
What  you  write  you  put  your  name  to;  but  it's 
a  pretty  big  temptation  to  a  young  fellow  who 
knows  he  has  got  the  swing  in  a  newspaper  and 
doesn't  have  to  sign  his  name  to  what  he  says,  to 


The  Boler  House  Mystery.  153 

make  an  effort  to 'scoop'  his  rivals  at  whatever  cost. 
The  boys  don't  mean  any  harm,  but  irresponsible 
power  is  a  mighty  dangerous  weapon  to  handle. 
Not  many  older  men  can  be  trusted  to  use  it  wisely. 
Then  why  should  we  expect  it  of  those  young 
fellows  who  don't  know  yet  any  of  the  deeper 
meanings  of  life  ?  Great  Scott,  man  !  /  think  they 
do  pretty  well  under  the  circumstances.  I'm  afraid 
I'd  do  worse." 

Mr.  Winkle  stroked  his  chin  reflectively. 

"  No  doubt,  no  doubt,"  he  said  abstractedly,  as 
they  stepped  out  of  the  elevator. 

John  Boler  looked  at  him  for  a  brief  space 
of  time  to  see  if  he  had  intended  the  thrust 
and  then  went  on: 

"  That  girl's  life  or  death  just  meant  an  item  to 
the  boys,  and  it  didn't  mean  much  more  to  you 
or  me  until — until  we  stood  and  heard  her  talk 
and  saw  her  suffer,  and  were  made  personally  un- 
comfortable by  it.  Yet  we  are  old  enough  to  know 
all  about  it  for  her  and  others.  We  do  know  it,  and 
go  right  along  as  if  we  didn't.  We  are  a  pretty  bad 
lot,  don't  you  think  so  ?" 

Silas  Winkle  unlocked  his  door  before  he  spoke. 
Then  he  turned  to  his  old  friend's  son  and  shook 
his  hand  warmly. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said,  looking  at  him  steadily. 
"  Good-bye,  Johnnie.  I  see  it  only  comes  on  you 
at  odd  spells.  Come  up  to  Meadville  for  a  while 
and  I  think  you  will  get  over  it  altogether.  Your 
father  was  the  clearest-headed  man  I  ever  saw  and 


154  The  Boler  House  Mystery. 

you  seem  to  have  lucid  intervals.  Those  last 
remarks  of  yours  were  worthy  of  your  father,  my 
boy,"  and  the  old  man  patted  him  softly  on  the 
back. 

John  Boler  whistled  all  the  way  downstairs. 
Then  he  laughed. 

"  I  wonder  if  old  Winkle  really  does  think  I  am 
off  my  base,"  said  he,  as  he  took  down  his  hat. 
"  I  suppose  we  are  all  more  or  less  crazy.  He 
thinks  I  am  and  I  know  he  is.  It  is  a  crazy  world. 
Only  lunatics  could  plan  or  conduct  it  on  its  present 
lines."  And  he  laughed  again  and  then  sighed  and 
passed  out  into  the  human  stream  on  Broadway. 


XTbe  Ufme  Xocfe  of  ©ut  ancestors. 


"  Visiting  the  iniquity  of  the  fathers  tifon  the  children  unto  the 
third  and  fourth  generation.'1'1 — BIBLE. 


THE  TIME  LOCK  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 


"  Don't  be  so  hard  on  yourself,  Nellie.  I  am  sure 
it  can  be  no  great  wrong  you  have  done.  Girls  like 
you  are  too  apt  to  be  morbid.  No  doubt  we  all  do 
it,  whatever  it  is.  I'm  sure  I  shall  not  blame  you 
when  you  tell  me.  Perhaps  I  shall  say  you  are 
quite  right — that  is,  if  there  is  any  right  and  wrong 
to  it,  and  provided  I  know  which  is  which,  after  I 
hear  the  whole  story — as  most  likely  I  shall  not. 
Right—" 

And  here  the  elder  woman  smiled  a  little  satiri- 
cally, and  looked  out  of  the  window  with  a  far-away 
gaze,  as  if  she  were  retravelling  through  vast  spaces 
of  time  and  experience  far  beyond  anything  her 
friend  could  comprehend. 

The  evening  shadows  had  gathered,  and  cast,  as 
they  will,  a  spell  of  gravity  and  exchange  of  confi- 
dences over  the  two. 

Presently  the  older  woman  began  speaking  again: 

"  Do  you  know,  Nell,  I  was  always  a  little  sur- 
prised that  Lord  Byron,  of  all  people,  should  have 
put  it  that  way: 

"  I  know  the  right,  and  I  approve  it  too  ; 
Condemn  the  wrong — and  yet  the  wrong  pursue. 

"  *  The  right ' — why,  it  is  like   a  woman  to  say 

i57 


158        The  Time  Lock  of  Our  Ancestors. 

that.  As  if  there  were  but  one  '  right,'  and  it  were 
dressed  in  purple  and  fine  linen,  and  seated  on  a 
throne  in  sight  of  the  assembled  multitude  !  '  The 
right,'  indeed  !  Yes,  it  sounds  like  a  woman — and 
a  very  young  woman  at  that,  Nellie." 

The  girl  looked  with  large,  troubled,  passionate 
eyes  at  her  friend,  and  then  broke  out  into  hot,  in- 
dignant words — words  that  would  have  offended 
many  a  woman;  but  Florence  Campbell  only 
laughed,  a  light,  queer  little  peal;  tipped  her  chair 
a  trifle  farther  back,  put  her  daintily  slippered  feet 
on  the  satin  cushion  of  the  low  window-seat,  and 
looked  at  her  friend,  through  the  gathering  dark- 
ness, from  under  half-closed  eyelids. 

Presently — this  woman  was  always  deliberate  in 
her  conversation;  long  silences  were  a  part  of  her 
power  in  interesting  and  keeping  the  full  attention 
of  her  listeners — presently  she  said: 

"Of  course  you  think  so.  Why  shouldn't  you? 
So  did  I — once.  And  do  you  know,  Nellie,  that 
sort  of  sentiment  dies  hard — very  hard — in  a  woman. 
At  your  age — "  Florence  Campbell  always  spoke  as 
if  she  were  very  old,  although  to  look  at  her  one 
would  say  that  she  was  not  twenty-eight. 

These  delicately  formed  Dresden-china  women 
often  carry  their  age  with  such  an  easy  grace — it 
sits  upon  them  so  lightly — in  spite  of  ill-health, 
mental  storms,  and  moral  defeats,  that  while  their 
more  robust  sisters  grow  haggard  and  worn,  and 
hard  of  feature  and  tone,  under  weights  less  terri- 
ble and  with  feelings  less  intense,  they  keep  their 


The  Time  Lock  of  Our  Ancestors.        159 

grace  and  gentleness  of  tone  in  the  teeth  of  every 
blast. 

"  At  your  age,  dear,  I  would  have  scorned  a 
woman  who  talked  as  I  do  now;  and  more  than 
that,  I  would  have  suspected  her,  as  you  do  not  sus- 
pect me,  of  being  a  very  dangerous  and  not  unlikely 
a  very  bad  person  indeed — simply  from  choice. 
While  you — you  generous  little  soul — think  that  I 
am  better  than  I  talk." 

She  laughed  again,  and  shifted  her  position  as  if 
she  were  not  wholly  comfortable  under  the  troubled 
gaze  of  the  great  eyes  she  knew  were  fastened  upon 
her. 

"  You  think  I  am  better  than  my  opinions.  I 
know  exactly  what  you  tell  yourself  about  me  when 
you  are  having  it  out  with  yourself  upstairs.  Oh,  I 
know  !  You  excuse  me  for  saying  this  on  the 
theory  that  it  was  not  deliberate — was  an  oversight. 
You  account  for  that  by  the  belief  that  I  am  not 
well — my  nerves  are  shaken.  You  are  perfectly 
certain  that  7"  am  all  right,  no  matter  what  I  do,  or 
say,  or  think."  She  took  her  little  friend's  soft 
hand  as  it  twisted  nervously  a  ribbon  in  her  lap, 
and  held  the  back  of  it  against  her  cheek,  as  she 
often  did.  "  But  just  suppose  it  were  some  one 
else — some  other  woman,  Nellie,  you  would  suspect 
her  (no  doubt  quite  unfairly)  of  all  the  crimes  in 
the  statute-books.  Oh,  I  know,  I  know,  child  !  I 
did — at  your  age — and,  sad  to  relate,  /  had  no 
Florence  Campbell  to  soften  my  judgments  on  even 
one  of  my  sex." 


160       The  Time  Lock  of  Our  Ancestors. 

She  had  grown  serious  as  she  talked,  and  her 
voice  almost  trembled.  The  instant  she  recognized 
this  herself,  she  laughed  again,  and  said  gayly: 

"  Oh,  I  was  a  very  severe  judge — once — I  do  as- 
sure you,  though  you  may  not  think  so  now."  She 
dropped  her  voice  to  a  tone  of  mocking  solemnity, 
not  uncommon  with  her,  and  added:  "  If  you  won't 
tell  on  me,  I'll  make  a  little  confession  to  you, 
dear;"  and  she  took  both  of  the  girl's  hands  firmly 
in  her  own  and  waited  until  the  promise  was  given. 

"I  wouldn't  have  it  get  out  for  the  world,  but 
the  fact  is,  Nell,  I  sometimes  strongly  suspect  that, 
at  your  age,  I  was — a  most  unmitigated,  self-right- 
eous little  prig." 

Nellie's  hands  gave  a  disappointed  little  jerk:  but 
her  friend  held  them  firmly,  laughed  gayly  at  her 
discomfiture — for  she  recognized  fully  that  the  girl 
was  attuned  to  tragedy — buried  her  face  in  them 
for  an  instant,  and  then  deliberately  kissed  in  turn 
each  pink  little  palm — not  omitting  her  own. 
Then  she  dropped  those  of  her  friend,  and  leaned 
back  against  her  cushions  and  sighed. 

Nellie  was  puzzled  and  annoyed.  She  was  on 
the  verge  of  tears. 

"Florence,  darling,"  she  said  presently,  "if  I  did 
not  know  you  to  be  the  best  woman  in  the  world, 
I  shouldn't  know  what  to  make  of  your  dark  hints, 
and  of — and  of  you.  You  are  always  a  riddle  to 
me — a  beautiful  riddle,  with  a  good  answer,  if  only 
I  could  guess  it.  You  talk  like  a  fiend,  sometimes, 
and  you  act  like — an  angel,  always." 


The  Time  Lock  of  Our  Ancestors.        161 

"  Give  me  up.  You  can't  guess  me.  Fact  is,  I 
haven't  got  any  answer,"  laughed  Florence. 

But  the  girl  went  steadily  on  without  seeming  to 
hear  her:  "  Do  you  know,  there  are  times  when  I 
wonder  if  it  would  be  possible  to  be  insane  and 
vicious,  mentally  and  verbally,  as  it  were,  and  per- 
fectly sane  and  exaltedly  good  morally." 

Florence  Campbell  threw  herself  back  on  her 
cushions  and  laughed  gayly,  albeit  a  trifle  hysteri- 
cally. "  Photograph  taken  by  an  experienced  ar- 
tist !"  she  exclaimed.  "  You've  hit  me !  Oh, 
you've  hit  me,  Nell."  Then  sitting  suddenly  bolt- 
upright,  she  looked  the  girl  searchingly  in  the  face, 
and  said  slowly:  "  Do  you  know,  Nellie,  that  I  am 
sometimes  tempted  to  tell  the  truth  ?  About  my- 
self, I  mean — and  to  you.  Never  on  any  other 
subject,  nor  to  anybody  else,  of  course,"  she  added 
dryly,  in  comedy  tones,  strangely  contrasting  with 
the  almost  tragic  accents  as  she  went  on.  "  But  I 
can't.  '  The  truth  !'  Why,  it  is  like  the  right;  I'm  sure 
I  don't  know  what  it  is;  and  it  has  been  so  long — 
oh,  so  cruelly  long — since  I  told  it,  by  word  or 
action,  that  I  have  lost  its  very  likeness  from  my 
mind.  I  have  told  lies  and  acted  lies  so  long — " 
Her  friend's  eyes  grew  indignant  and  she  began  to 
protest,  but  Florence  ran  on:  "I  have  evaded  facts 
— not  only  to  others,  but  to  myself,  until — rntil  I'd 
have  to  swear  out  a  search-warrant  and  have  it  served 
on  my  mental  belongings  to  find  out  myself  what  I 
do  think  or  feel  or  want  on  any  given  subject." 

It  was  characteristic  of  the  woman  to  use  this 


1 62        The  Time  Lock  of  Our  Ancestors. 

flippant  method  of  expression,  even  in  her  most 
intense  moments. 

"  I  change  so,  Nell;  sometimes  suddenly — all  in 
a  flash." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Then  she  began  again, 
quite  seriously: 

"There  is  a  theory,  you  know,  that  we  inherit 
traits  and  conditions  from  our  remote  ancestors  as 
well  as  from  our  immediate  ones.  I  sometimes 
fancy  that  they  descend  to  some  people  with  a 
Time  Lock  attachment.  A  child  is  born  " — she 
held  out  her  hands  as  if  a  baby  lay  on  them — "  he 
is  like  his  mother,  we  will  say,  gentle,  sweet,  kind, 
truthful,  for  years — let  us  say  seven.  Suddenly  the 
Time  Lock  turns,  and  the  traits  of  his  father 
(modified,  of  course,  by  the  acquired  habits  of  seven 
years)  show  themselves  strongly — take  possession, 
in  fact.  Another  seven  years,  and  the  priggishness 
of  a  great-uncle,  the  stinginess  of  an  aunt,  or  the 
dullness,  in  books,  of  a  rural  grandfather.  Then, 
in  keeping  with  the  next  two  turns  of  the  Lock,  he 
falls  in  love  with  every  new  face  he  sees,  marries 
early  and  indulges  himself  recklessly  in  a  large 
family.  He  is  an  exemplary  husband  and  father, 
as  men  go,  an  ideal  business  man,  and  a  general 
favorite  in  society." 

She  was  running  on  now  as  if  her  words  had  the 
whip-hand  of  her. 

"  Everybody  remarks  upon  the  favorable  change 
since  his  stupid,  priggish  college  days.  All  this 
time,  through  every  change,  he  has  been  honorable 


The  Time  Lock  of  Our  Ancestors.       163 

and  upright  in  his  dealings  with  his  fellows.  Sud- 
denly the  Time  Lock  of  a  Thievish  Ancestor  is 
turned  on;  he  finds  temptation  too  strong  for  even 
that  greatly  under-estimated  power — the  force  of 
habit  of  a  lifetime — and  the  trust  funds  in  his  keep- 
ing disappear  with  him  to  Canada.  Everybody  is 
surprised,  shocked,  pained — and  he,  no  doubt,  more 
so  than  anyone  else.  Emotional  insanity  is  offered 
as  a  possible  explanation  by  the  charitable  ;  long- 
headed, calculating,  intentional  rascality,  by  the 
severe  or  self-righteous.  And  he  ?  Well,  he  is 
wholly  unable  to  account  for  it  at  all.  He  knows 
that  he  had  not  lived  all  these  years  as  a  conscious, 
self-controlled  thief.  He  knows  that  the  tempta- 
tions of  his  past  life  had  never  before  taken  that 
particular  form.  He  knows  that  the  impulse  was 
sudden,  blinding,  overwhelming;  but  he  does  not 
know  why  and  how.  It  was  like  an  awful  dream. 
He  seemed  to  be  powerless  to  overcome  it.  The 
Time  Lock  had  turned  without  his  knowledge,  and 
in  spite  of  himself.  The  unknown,  unheard-of 
Thievish  Ancestor  took  possession,  as  it  were, 
through  force  of  superior  strength  and  ability — and 
then  it  was  his  hour.  The  hereditary  shadow  on 
the  dial  had  come  around  to  him.  The  great- 
uncle's  hour  was  past.  He,  no  doubt,  was  '  turned 
on  '  to  some  other  dazed  automaton — in  Maine  or 
Texas — who  had  fallen  heir  to  a  drop  too  much  of 
his  blood,  and  she,  poor  thing,  if  it  happened  to  be 
a  girl  this  time,  forthwith  proceeded  to  fall  in  love 
with  her  friend's  husband — seeing  he  was  the  only 


164       The  Time  Lock  of  Our  Ancestors. 

man  at  hand  at  the  time;  while  the  Thievish  An- 
cestor left — in  shame  and  contrition — a  small  but 
light-fingered  boy  in  Georgia,  to  keep  his  engage- 
ment with  our  respectable,  highly  honored,  and 
heretofore  highly  honorable  man  of  affairs  in  Wall 
street.  The  Time  Lock  of  heredity  had  been  set 
for  this  hour,  and  the  machinery  of  circumstances 
oiled  the  wheels  and  silently  moved  the  dial." 

There  was  absolute  silence  when  Florence  Camp- 
bell's voice  ceased.  The  heavy  curtains  made  the 
shadows  in  the  struggling  moonlight  deep  and  sol- 
emn. Two  great  eyes  looked  out  into  the  darkness 
and  a  shudder  passed  over  her  frame.  She  thought 
her  little  friend  had  fallen  asleep,  she  lay  so  still 
and  quiet  on  the  rug  at  her  feet.  Florence  sighed, 
and  thought  how  quickly  youth  forgot  its  troubles 
and  how  lightly  Care  sat  on  her  throne.  Then  sud- 
denly a  passionate  sobbing  broke  the  silence,  and 
two  arms,  covered  with  lace  and  jewels,  flung  them- 
selves around  the  older  woman's  knees. 

"  O  my  God  !  Florence;  O  my  God  !  is  there  no 
way  to  stop  the  wheels  ?  Must  they  go  blindly  on  ? 
Can  we  never  know  who  or  what  we  shall  be  to-mor- 
row ?  It  is  awful,  Florence,  awful ;  and — it — is 
true  !     O  God  !  it  is  true  /" 

Florence  Campbell  had  been  very  serious  when 
she  stopped  her  little  harangue.  There  had  been  a 
quality  in  her  voice  which,  while  it  was  not  wholly 
new  to  her  friend,  would  have  been  unknown  to 
many  who  thought  they  knew  her  well.  To  them 
she  was  a  beautiful,  fashionable,  rather  light  woman, 


The  Time  Lock  of  Our  Ancestors.       165 

with  a  gay  nature,  who  either  did  not  know,  or  did 
not  care  to  investigate  too  closely,  the  career  of  her 
husband,  to  whom  she  was  devotedly  attached. 

She  had  been  quite  serious,  I  say,  when  she 
stopped  her  little  philosophical  speculation;  but  she 
was  greatly  surprised  at  the  storm  she  had  raised  in 
the  breast  of  her  little  friend. 

Florence  bent  down  quickly,  and  putting  her 
arms  about  the  girl  tried  to  raise  her  up;  but  she 
only  sobbed  the  harder,  and  clung  to  her  friend's 
knees  as  a  desperate,  frightened  creature  might 
cling  to  its  only  refuge. 

"Why,  Nellie,  little  kitten,"  said  the  older 
woman,  using  a  term  of  endearment  common  with 
her  in  talking  with  the  girl — "  why,  Nellie,  little 
kitten,  what  in  the  world  is  the  matter  ?  Did  I 
scare  the  life  out  of  you  with  my  Time  Locks  and 
my  gruesome  ancestors?"  and  she  tried  to  laugh  a 
little;  but  the  sound  of  her  voice  was  not  altogether 
pleasant  to  the  ear.  "  I'll  ring  for  a  light.  I  had 
no  business  to  talk  such  stuff  to  you  when  you  were 
blue  and  in  the  dark  too.  I  guess,  Nell,  that  the 
Time  Lock  of  my  remote  ancestor,  who  was  a  fool, 
must  have  been  turned  on  me  shortly  after  sundown 
to-day,  don't  you  think  ? "  And  this  time  her  laugh 
lacked  the  note  of  bitterness  it  had  held  before. 

She  ran  on,  still  caressing  the  weeping  girl  at  her 
feet: 

"Yes,  undoubtedly,  my  Remote  Ancestor — the 
fool — has  now  moved  in.  Do  you  think  you  can 
stand  seven  years  of  him,  kitten,  if  you  live  with  me 


1 66        The  Time  Lock  of  Our  Ancestors. 

that  long  ?  But  you  won't.  You'll  go  and  marry 
some  horrid  man,  and  I  shall  be  so  jealous  that  my 
hair  will  curl  at  sight  of  him." 

But  the  girl  would  not  laugh.  She  refused  to  be 
cheered,  nor  would  she  have  a  light.  She  raised 
herself  until  her  head  rested  on  her  friend's  bosom, 
and  clung  to  her,  sobbing  as  if  her  heart  would 
break.  Florence  stroked  her  hair  and  sat  silent  for 
a  while,  wondering  just  what  had  so  shaken  the 
child.  She  knew  full  well  that  it  was  not  what  she 
had  hinted  of  the  darkness  and  her  gruesome  story. 
Presently  Nellie  drew  her  friend's  face  down,  and 
whispered  between  her  sobs: 

"  Darling,  I  must  have  had  some  dreadful  ancestor, 
a  wicked — wicked  woman.     I — " 

Florence  Campbell  shrieked  with  laughter.  She 
felt  relieved  of — she  did  not  know  what.  She  had 
blamed  herself  for  even  unconsciously  touching  the 
secret  spring  of  sorrow  in  the  girl's  heart.  It  was  a 
strange  sight,  the  two  women  clinging  to  each  other, 
the  one  sobbing,  the  other  laughing,  each  trying  in 
vain  to  check  the  other. 

At  last  Nellie  said,  still  almost  in  a  whisper:  "  But, 
Florence,  you  do  not  know.  You  do  not  under- 
stand. You  are  too  good  to  know.  It  is  you  who 
will  scorn  and  hate  me  when  I  tell  you.  O 
Florence,  Florence,  I  can  never  dare  to  tell  you !" 

Her  friend,  still  laughing,  made  little  ejaculations 
of  satirical  import  as  the  girl  grew  more  and  more 
hysterical. 

"  0  thou  wicked  wretch  !"    laughed  she.     "  No 


The  Time  Lock  of  Our  Ancestors.        167 

doubt  you've  killed  your  man,  as  they  say  out 
West.  Oh,  dear — oh,  dear  !  Nell,  this  is  really 
quite  delicious  !  Did  it  step  on  a  bug  ?  Or  was  it 
a  great  big  spider  ?  And  does  it  think  it  ought  to 
be  hanged  for  the  crime  ?  A  peal  of  laughter  from 
the  one,  a  shudder  from  the  other,  was  the  only  re- 
ply to  these  efforts  to  break  the  force  of  the  girl's 
self-reproach.  Florence  clinched  her  small  fist  in 
mock  heroics  and  began  again: 

"  Your  crimes  have  found  you  out !  And  mine — 
mine — has  been  the  avenging  hand  !  Really,  this 
is  too  good,  kitten.  I  shall  tell,  let  me  see — I  shall 
tell—  Tom!" 

The  girl  was  on  her  feet  in  a  flash. 

"  Not  that !  not  that,  Florence  !  Anything  but 
that !     I  will  tell  you  myself  first — he  shall  not  ?" 

Florence  grew  suddenly  silent  and  grave.  The 
girl  slipped  down  at  her  knees  again,  and  clasping 
her  hand,  went  hoarsely  on: 

"  O  Florence,  darling,  I  did  not  mean  to  wrong 
you  !  Truly,  truly,  I  did  not — and  I  do  not  believe 
he  did— not  at — first-.  We — oh,  it  was — "  she 
sank  on  the  floor,  at  the  feet  of  her  astonished 
friend,  and  with  upstretched  arms  in  the  darkness 
whispered:  "Florence,  Florence — O  my  God!  I 
cannot  tell  you  !  I  must  go  away  !  /  must  go  away  .'" 

The  older  woman  did  not  touch  the  outstretched 
hands  and  they  sank  to  the  floor,  and  on  them 
rested  a  tear-stained,  wretched  face. 

A  moment  later  Tom  Campbell  entered  the  room. 

To  eyes  unaccustomed  to  the  darkness  nothing 


1 68        The  Time  Lock  of  Our  Ancestors. 

was  visible.  He  did  not  see  his  wife,  who  arose 
as  he  entered,  and  stood  with  bated  breath  over 
the  form  of  the  girl  on  the  floor. 

"  By  Jove  !  "  he  muttered,  "  this  room  is  as  dark 
as  Egypt,  and  then  some — Wonder  where  Florence 
is.  Those  damned  servants  ought  to  be  shot  ! 
Whole  house  like  a  confounded  coal-pit !  Didn't 
expect  me  for  hours  yet,  I  suppose  !  That's  no 
reason  for  living  like  a  lot  of  damned  bats  !  'Fraid 
of  musquitoes,  I  suppose.  Where  are  those  matches  ? 
Florence !  She's  evidently  gone  out — or  to  bed. 
Wonder  where  her  little '  kitten'  is  ?  Umm — wonder 
how  much  longer  Florence  means  to  keep  her  here  ? 
Don't  see  how  the  thing's  going  to  go  on  much 
longer  this  way,  with  a  girl  with  a  conscience  like 
that.  Perfectly  abnormal  !  Perfectly  ridiculous  ! 
Umm — no  more  tact  than — " 

Nellie  moaned  aloud.  Florence  had  held  her 
breath,  hoping  he  would  go.  He  had  almost 
reached  the  door  leading  to  the  hall,  after  his  vain 
search  for  matches. 

"  Hello  !  what  was  that  ?  "  said  Campbell,  turn- 
ing again  into  the  room. 

His  wife  knew  that  escape  was  not  now  possible. 
"  Nothing,  Tom,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  that  trembled 
a  little.     "  Go  upstairs.     I  will  come  up  soon." 

"  Why,  hello,  Florence,  that  you  ?  What  are  you 
sitting  here  in  the  dark  for,  all  alone  ?  Why  didn't 
you  speak  to  me  when  I  came  in  ?  What  did  you 
let  me—" 

Nellie  sat  up,  and  in  doing  so  overturned  a  chair. 


The  Time  Lock  of  Our  Ancestors.        169 

Tom's  eyes  had  grown  accustomed  to  the  darkness. 
He  saw  the  two  women  outlined  before  him,  and 
he  saw  that  Nellie  had  been  on  the  floor,  and  that 
his  wife  stood  over  her. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?"  he  demanded.  "  What's 
up?" 

He  came  toward  them.  Nellie  sprang  to  her 
feet,  with  flashing  eyes  and  outstretched,  imploring 
hands  to  wave  him  back.  She  was  about  to  rush 
into  a  painful  explanation.  Florence  stepped  to- 
ward her,  put  both  arms  about  her,  and  drew  her 
onto  the  cushioned  window-seat  at  their  side.  She 
knew  she  must  cover  the  girl's  agitation  from  her 
husband,  and  somehow  gain  time  to  think. 

"  Sit  down,  dear,"  she  said  softly.  "  Sit  down 
here  by  me.  You  have  been  asleep.  He  frightened 
you  coming  in  so  suddenly.  You  have  been  dream- 
ing ;  you  talked  in  your  sleep— but  it  was  all  non- 
sense— about  an  ancestor,  whom  you  blamed  very 
bitterly." 

The  girl  began  to  speak  impulsively,  but  Florence 
checked  her. 

"  Yes,  I  know.  You  told  me.  It  was  all  the 
greatest  stuff.  But  the  part  that  was  true— I  doubt 
if  she  was  to  blame.  I  think,  from  all  I  know  of — 
of  her,  and  of  the  gentleman  you  mentioned,  the 
one  she— seemed  to  care  for— that — oh,  no,  kitten! 
I  am  sure  she  was  not  to  blame." 

Nellie  was  trembling  violently,  clinging  to  her 
friend  in  shame  and  remorse.  Tom  stood  perfectly 
quiet  in  the  deeper  darkness,  back  from  the  window, 


\yo        The  Time  Lock  of  Our  Ancestors. 

with  a  smile  on  his  cheerful  face  and  a  puzzled 
light  in  his  handsome  eyes. 

"  Go  upstairs,  Tom,"  said  Florence  again,  this 
time  in  a  steadier  tone.  "  Nellie's  head  aches;  you 
waked  her  up  too  suddenly.  We  don't  want  more 
light — do  we,  Nellie  ?  Not  just  now.  We  have  quite 
light  enough  for  the  present.  I  assure  you  we  are 
better  off  just  now  in  the  dark.  You  would  think 
so  yourself  if  you  could  see  us  as  we  see  ourselves. 
We  are  quite  battered  and  out  at  elbow,  I  assure 
you,  and  not  at  all  fit  for  fastidious  masculine  eyes." 

She  was  pulling  herself  up  well.  "  To-morrow 
we  will  spruce  up  our  bangs,  put  on  fresh  gowns, 
and  not  know  ourselves  for  the  wretches  we  are  to- 
night. Until  then,  Sir  Knight,  no  masculine  eye 
shall  rest  upon  our  dilapidation.     Go  !  " 

Tom  Campbell  had  seen  his  wife  in  this  mood 
before.     He  went. 

All  the  way  upstairs  he  wondered  what  had  hap- 
pened. "  Never  could  make  women  out  anyway," 
he  muttered;  "least  of  all,  Florence.  Women  are 
a  queer  lot.  More  you  live  with  'em,  more  you  don't 
know  what  they'll  do  next.  Wonder  what  in 
thunder's  up.  '  Kitten'  never  said  a  word;  but  I'm 
damned  if  I  did't  hear  her  groan!  Guess  the  little 
goose  feels  kind  of — queer — with  me  and  the  old 
lady  both  present.  Wonder — whew! — wonder  how 
much  I  said  aloud,  and  how  much  they  heard  when 
I  first  went  in!  Confounded  habit,  talking  aloud 
to  myself  !  Got  to  stop  it,  old  boy;  must  be  done 
■ — get  you  into  trouble  yet !" 


The  Time  Lock  of  Our  A  ncestors.        1 7 1 

Then  he  turned  off  the  gas,  and  was  sleeping  as 
peacefully  as  an  infant  before  the  two  women  be- 
low stairs  had  parted  for  the  night. 

When  Tom  left  the  room,  Nellie  began  to  sob 
again,  and  Florence  stroked  her  hair  with  her  icy 
hands  and  waited  for  the  girl  to  speak — or  grow 
calm.  And  for  herself — she  hardly  knew  what  she 
waited  for  in  herself;  but  she  felt  that  she  needed 
time. 

After  a  long  silence  she  said,  quite  gently; 
"  Nellie,  little  girl,  we  will  go  upstairs  now;  you 
will  go  to  bed.  If  you  ever  feel  like  it,  after  you 
take  time  to  think  it  over,  and  your  nerves  are  quiet 
—if  you  ever  feel  like  it,  you  may  tell  just  what 
trick  your  troublesome  ancestor  has  tried  to  play 
you;  but  I  want  to  say  now,  dear,  don't  feel  that 
you  must  tell  me,  nor  that  I  do  not  know  perfectly 
well  that  my  little  kitten  is  all  right,  ancestors  or 
no  ancestors,  and  that  we,  together  can  somehow 
find  the  combination  to  that  Time  Lock  that  so 
distresses  you,  and  turn  it  off  again.  Meantime, 
little  girl  no  one  shall  harm  you.  You  shall  be  let 
alone;  you  are  all  right!  Be  sure  of  that.  I  am. 
Now,  good-night ;"  and  she  kissed  the  still  sobbing 
girl  on  the  forehead  and  hands,  in  spite,  of  her 
protests  and  self-accusations. 

Suddenly  Nellie  sank  on  her  knees  again,  and 
grasped  Florence's  dress  as  she  had  turned  to  go: 

"  O  Florence  !  O  Florence  !  are  you  human  ? 
How  can  you  ?  You  are  not  like  other  women!  O 
my   God!  if   I    could   only  be  like  you;  but   you 


172        The  Tune  Lock  of  Our  Ancestors. 

frighten  me!     You  are  so  calm.     How  cold  your 
hands  are!  oh — " 

"  Are  they  ?  I  did  not  notice.  Oh  well,  no  mat- 
ter; it  is  an  old  trick  of  theirs,  you  know." 

Florence  Campbell's  voice  was  very  steady  now. 
Her  words  were  slow  and  deliberate — they  sounded 
as  if  she  was  very  tired;  and  her  step,  as  she  climbed 
the  stairs,  had  lost  its  spring  and  lightness. 

The  next  morning  Nellie's  breakfast  was  carried 
to  her  room,  with  a  message  from  Florence  not  to 
get  up  until  she  came  to  her  at  their  usual  hour  for 
reading  together. 

About  noon,  as  the  girl  lay  thinking  for  the  hun- 
dredth time  that  she  must  get  up  and  face  life  again 
— that  she  must  somehow  stop  this  blinding  head- 
ache, and  go  away — that  she  must  die — Florence 
swept  into  the  room,  trailing  her  soft,  long 
gown  behind  her,  and  gently  closed  the  door.  She 
had  put  on  a  gay  pink  tea-gown,  with  masses  of 
white  lace  and  smart  little  bows  in  unexpected 
places. 

"  Feel  better,  dear  ?"  she  asked,  gayly.  "  Griggs 
told  me  your  head  ached,  and  that  you  had  not  slept 
well.  I  confess  I  did  not  either — not  very.  Tom 
and  I  talked  rather  late;  you  know  he  sails  for  Liv- 
erpool at  noon.  Sure  enough,  you  didn't  know. 
Well,  no  matter.  The  vessel  is  just  about  sailing 
now.  Yes,  it  is  rather  sudden.  We  talked  so  much 
of  it  last  night  that  it  seems  quite  an  old  story  to 
me  to-day,  though.  You  know  he  was  to  go  in  two 
weeks,  anyway.     It  seemed  best  to  go  earlier,  so  I 


The  Time  Lock  of  Our  Ancestors.        173 

helped  him  pack,  and  saw  him  to  the  steamer  two 
hours  ago.  You  know  a  man  doesn't  have  to  take 
anything  but  a  tooth-brush  and  a  smoking-cap.  We 
thought  it  would  be  best  for  his  health  to  go  at  once. 
Tom  has  not  seemed  quite  himself  of  late."  She 
did  not  look  at  her  friend  as  she  talked  and  her 
white  face  was  turned  from  the  light.  She  talked 
so  fast,  it  seemed  as  if  she  had  rehearsed  and  was 
repeating  a  part  with  a  desire  to  have  it  over  as  soon 
as  might  be.  "  His  Travelling  Ancestor,  the  one  who 
wants  change — change — change  in  all  things,  has 
had  hold  of  him  of  late.  I'm  sure  you  have  noticed 
how  restless  he  was." 

The  girl  sat  up  and  listened  with  wide  eyes  and 
flushed  cheeks.  She  had  known  many  unexpected 
and  unexplained  things  to  be  done  in  the  house  of 
this  friend,  who  had  given  her  a  home  and  a  warm 
welcome  a  year  before,  when  she  had  left  school, 
an  orphan  and  homeless.  But  this  sudden  depart- 
ure she  had  not  heard  even  mentioned  before. 
She  thought  she  understood  it. 

"  O  Florence  !  Florence  !  "  she  cried,  passionately. 
"  It  is  my  fault!  I  have  separated  you!  I  have 
brought  sorrow  to  you  !  You,  who  are  so  good,  so 
good;  and  I — oh,  how  can  you  be  so  kind  to  me  ? 
Hate  me  !  Hate  me  !  Thrust  me  from  your  house, 
and  tell  the  world  I  tried  to  steal  your  husband  ! 
Tell  that  I  am  vile'  and  wicked  !  Tell — and  now 
I  have  sent  him  away  from  you,  who  love  him — 
whom  he  loves  !  Why  do  you  not  blame  me  ? 
Why  do  you  never  blame  anyone  ?     Why — " 


174        The  Time  Lock  of  Our  Ancestors. 

There  was  a  pause  ;  the  girl  sobbed  bitterly, 
while  the  older  woman  seemed  afraid  to  trust  her 
voice.  After  a  while  in  a  tired,  solemn  tone,  Nellie 
went  on  : 

"  Do  you  think  you  can  believe  a  word  I  say, 
Florence  ?  Is  there  any  use  for  me  to  tell  you  the 
truth  ?" 

Her  friend  nodded  slowly,  looking  her  steadily  in 
the  eyes.  Her  lips  were  tightly  drawn  together, 
and  her  hands  were  cold  and  trembling. 

"  Then,  Florence,  I  will  tell  you,  truly — truly — 
truly,  as  I  hope  for — "  She  was  going  to  say 
"your  forgivness,"  but  it  seemed  too  cruel  to  ask 
for  that  just  now.  "  I  did  not  understand,  not  at 
first,  either  him  or  myself.  I  thought  he  was  like 
you" — she  felt  Florence  shudder — "  and  loved  me, 
as  he  said,  as  you  did.  I  was  so  glad  and  proud, 
until — until — O  Florence  !  how  can  I  tell  you  that 
I  let  him  beg  me  to  go  away  with  him  !  After  I 
understood  what  he  meant,  my  heart  did  leap,  even 
in  its  utter  self-abasement  and  wretchedness.  I 
let  him  beg  me  twice,  and  kiss  me,  after  I  under- 
stood !  It  must  have  been  my  fault  ;  he  said  it  was" 
— Florence  took  her  friend's  hand  in  hers — "  and 
he  said  that  no  one  else  had  ever  taken  his  thoughts 
away  from  you." 

The  girl  thought  she  saw  the  drawn  lips  before 
her  curl ;  but  she  must  free  her  whole  heart  now, 
and  lay  bare  her  very  soul. 

"  He  said  that  he  had  always  been  true  to  you, 
Florence,  even  in  thought,  until  I — O    Florence  ! 


The  Time  Lock  of  Our  Ancestors.        175 

I  must  be  worse  than  anyone  one  earth.  I — he 
said—" 

Florence  Campbell  sprang  to  her  feet.  "  Yes,  I 
know,  I  know  !"  she  exclaimed,  breathlessly,  "and 
you  believed  him  !  Poor  little  fool  !  Women  do. 
Sometimes  a  second  time,  but  not  a  third  time,  dear 
— not  a  third  time  !  Do  not  blame  yourself  any 
more."  She  stopped,  then  hurried  on  as  one  will 
do  when  danger  threatens  from  within.  "  If  it  had 
not  been  you,  it  would,  it  might — my  God  !  it  might 
have  been  worse  !     Some  poor  girl — " 

She  stopped  again  as  if  choking.  The  two  women 
looked  at  each  other  ;  the  younger  one  gave  a  long, 
shuddering  moan,  and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 

Presently  Florence  said  slowly:  "  All  ancestors 
were  not  thieves.  Some  were  simply  fickle,  and 
light,  and  faithless." 

Nellie  raised  a  face  full  of  passionate  suffering: 
"  Florence  !  Florence  !  how  can  you  excuse  either 
of  us  ?     How  can — " 

Suddenly,  with  a  great  sob,  Florence  Campbell 
threw  herself  into  the  girl's  outstretched  arms,  and 
with  a  wail  of  utter  desolation  cried:  "  Hush,  Nellie, 
hush  !  Never  speak  of  it  again,  never !  Only  lore 
me,  love  me — lore  me  !  I  need  it  so  !  And  no  one 
— no  one  in  all  the  world  has  ever  loved  me  truly  !" 

It  was  the  only  time  Nellie  ever  saw  Florence 
Campbell  lose  her  self-control. 


Florence  Campbell's  jfate. 


"  '  Tis  the  good  reader  that  makes  the  good  book  ;  a  good  head 
cannot  read  amiss;  in  every  book  he  finds  passages  which  seem 
confidences  or  asides  hidden  from  all  else  and  unmistakably  meant 
for  his  ear.   ..." 

"  Every  man  has  a  history  worth  knowing,  if  he  could  tell  it,  or 
if  we  could  draw  it  from  him.'''' — Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 


FLORENCE  CAMPBELL'S  FATE. 


I  was  sitting  in  my  office,  with  my  head  in  my 
hands,  and  with  both  elbows  resting  on  my  desk. 
I  was  tired  in  every  nerve  of  my  body;  more  than 
that,  I  was  greatly  puzzled  over  the  strange  con- 
duct of  my  predecessor  in  the  college,  whose  assist- 
ant I  had  been,  and  whose  place  I  was  appointed 
to  fill  during  the  unexpired  term  for  which  he  had 
been  elected  lecturer  on  anatomy. 

That  morning  he  was  to  introduce  me  to  the 
class  formally  as  his  successor,  deliver  his  last 
lecture,  and  then  retire  from  active  connection 
with  anatomical  instruction. 

Everything  appeared  to  be  perfectly  arranged, 
and,  indeed,  some  of  the  younger  men — under  my 
direction — had  taken  special  pains  to  provide  our 
outgoing  and  much  admired  professor  with  rather 
unusual  facilities  for  a  brilliant  close  to  his  career 
as  our  instructor. 

I  was  feeling  particularly  pleased  with  the  ar- 
rangements, when,  after  a  neat  little  speech  on  his 
part,  commendatory  of  me,  and  when  we  supposed 
him  to  be  about  to  begin  his  lecture,  he  suddenly 
turned  to  me  and  said,  bluntly:  "You  will  be  so 
good  as  to  take  the   class  to-day.     Young  gentle- 

i79 


l8o  Florence  Campbells  Fate. 

men,  I  bid  you  good  morning,"  and  abruptly  took 
up  his  hat  and  left.  I  sat  facing  an  expectant 
and  surprised  class  of  shrewd  young  fellows,  and  I 
was  quite  unprepared  to  proceed. 

I  had  intended  my  first  lecture  to  be  a  great  suc- 
cess. It  was  ready  for  the  following  day;  but  my 
notes  were  at  home,  and  my  position  can,  there- 
fore, be  better  imagined  than  described. 

I  was  thinking  over  this  and  the  strange  behavior 
of  my  generally  punctilious  predecessor,  when  he 
entered  my  office,  unannounced,  and,  after  the  or- 
dinary salutations  and  apologies  for  having  placed 
me  in  so  undesirable  a  position  in  the  morning,  he 
told  me  the  following  episode  from  his  history. 
I  will  give  it  in  his  own  words,  omitting,  as  far  as 
possible,  all  comment  made  by  me  at  the  time,  thus 
endeavoring  to  leave  you  alone  with  him  and  his 
story,  as  I  was  that  night.  This  will  better  enable 
me  to  impart  the  effect  to  you  as  it  was  conveyed 
to  me  at  the  time.  It  greatly  interested  me  then, 
but  the  more  I  think  it  over,  the  less  am  I  able  to 
decide,  in  my  own  mind,  all  of  the  psychological 
questions  which  it  aroused  then  and  which  it  has 
since  called  up.     This  is  the  story. 


I  am,  as  you  know,  not  a  young  man,  and  in  the 
practice  of  my  profession,  which  has  extended  over 
a  period  of  nearly  thirty  years,  I  have  learned  to 


Florence  Campbell's  Fate.  1 8 1 

diagnose  the  cases  that  come  under  my  care  very 
slowly  and  by  degrees.  Every  year  has  taught  me, 
what  you  will  undoubtedly  learn — for  I  have  great 
hopes  for  your  future  career — that  physical  symp- 
toms are  often  the  results  of  mental  ailments,  and 
that,  while  cordials  and  powders  are  sometimes 
very  useful  aids,  the  first  and  all-important  thing  is 
to  understand  fully  the  true  history  of  my  patient. 

I  have  laid  stress  upon  the  word  true,  simply 
because  while  a  history  is  easy  enough  to  get,  about 
the  most  difficult  matter  in  this  world  to  secure  is 
the  history  of  one  who  comes  to  a  physician  ailing 
in  body  or  in  mind.  It  is  easy  enough  to  treat  a 
broken  leg,  a  gunshot  wound,  or  even  that  ghastli- 
est of  physical  foes,  diphtheria,  if  it  is  one  of  these 
and  nothing  more. 

But  if  it  is  a  broken  leg  as  to  outward  sign,  and 
a  broken  heart  as  an  inward  fact,  then  the  case  is 
quite  another  matter,  and  the  treatment  involves 
skill  of  a  different  kind. 

If  the  bullet  that  tore  its  way  through  the  body 
was  poisoned  with  the  bitterness  of  disappointment, 
anxiety,  terror,  or  remorse,  something  more  is 
needed  than  bandages  and  beef-tea. 

If  diphtheria  was  contracted  solely  from  a  de- 
fective sewage-pipe,  it  will,  no  doubt,  yield  to  reme- 
dies and  pure  air.  But  if  long  years  of  nervous 
and  mental  prostration  have  made  ready  its  recep- 
tion, the  work  to  be  done  is  of  a  much  more  seri- 
ous nature. 

So  when  I  was  first  called  to  see  Florence  Camp- 


1 82  Florence  Campbells  Fate. 

bell,  the  message  conveyed  to  me  threw  no  light 
on  the  case,  beyond  what  the  most  ordinary  ob- 
server would  have  detected  at  a  glance. 
The  note  read  thus: 

"  Dr.  H.  Hamilton. 

"Dear  Sir:  Although  I  have  been  in  your  city 
for  several  months,  it  is  the  first  time  since  I  came 
that  I  have  myself  felt  that  I  needed  medical  at- 
tention. I  have,  therefore,  not  sent  you  the  en- 
closed note  (the  history  of  which  you  no  doubt 
know)  until  now.  If  you  will  read  it,  it  will  ex- 
plain that  the  time  has  now  come  when,  if  you  will 
come  to  me,  I  need  your  care. 

"  Yours  respectfully, 

"Florence  Campbell." 

"  Parlor  13,  F Ave.  Hotel." 

The  note  enclosed  was  from  a  physician  in  Chi- 
cago whom  I  had  known  intimately  many  years  be- 
fore, but  with  whom,  contrary  to  the  hint  given  by 
the  lady,  I  had  held  no  communication  for  a  long 
time  past.     It  said  : 

"  My  Dear  Doctor:  One  of  my  patients  is 
about  to  visit  your  city.  The  length  of  her  stay  is 
uncertain,  and,  as  she  is  often  ailing,  she  has  asked 
me  to  give  her  a  note  to  one  whom  I  believe  to 
be  skilful  and  to  possess  the  qualities  which  she 
requires  in  a  physician.  In  thinking  over  the  list 
of  those  known  to  me  in  New  York,  I  have  decided 
to  give  her  this  note  to  you.  I  need  not  commend 
her  to  you  ;  she  will  do  that  for  herself.     You  will 


Florence  Campbells  Fate.  183 

see  at  a  glance  that  she  is  a  charming  woman,  and 
you  will  learn  in  five  minutes'  conversation  with 
her,  that  she  is  a  brilliant  one.  She  is  also  one  of 
those  rare  patients  to  whom  you  can  afford  to  tell 
the  unvarnished  truth — an  old  hobby  of  yours,  I 
remember — and  from  whom  you  can  expect  it. 
She  has  had  no  serious  illness  recently,  but  is 
rather  subject  to  slight  colds  and  sick  headache. 
I  give  her  sulph.  12.  She  always  responds  to  that 
in  time. 

"Yours,  as  ever, 

"  Thomas  C.  Griswold." 

I  folded  the  note  and  laid  it  on  my  desk  and 
took  up  a  pen.  Then,  on  second  thought,  I  turned 
to  the  messenger  and  said,  "  Say  to  Miss  Campbell 
that  I  will  call  at  four  o'clock  this  afternoon." 

Before  I  had  finished  the  sentence  he  was  gone, 
and  I  laid  down  the  pen  and  sat  thinking. 

How  like  Tom  Griswold  that  was — the  old  Tom 
of  college  days — to  write  such  a  note  as  that  and 
give  it  to  a  patient!  "Sulph.  12" — and  then  I 
laughed  outright  at  his  interpretation  of  my  desire 
for  veracious  relations  between  patient  and  practi- 
tioner, and  re-read  his  note  from  end  to  end. 

Then  I  read  hers  again.  Neither  of  them  indi- 
cated the  slightest  need  of  haste  on  my  part. 

I  pictured  a  pretty  little  blonde — I  knew  Tom's 
taste.  He  had  been  betrothed  to  three  different 
girls  during  the  old  days,  and  they  had  all  been  of 
that  type;  small,  blue-eyed,  Dresden-china  sort  of 


184  Florence  Campbell's  Fate. 

girls,  who  had  each  pouted — and  married  someone 
else  in  due  time,  after  a  "misunderstanding"  with 
Tom. 

One  of  these  misunderstandings  had  been  over 
some  roses,  I  remember.  They  did  not  "match" 
her  dress  in  color,  and  she  was  wretched.  She 
told  him  he  should  have  known  better  than  to  get 
that  shade,  when  he  knew  very  well  that  she  never 
wore  anything  that  would  "go  with"    it. 

He  had  naturally  felt  a  little  hurt,  since  he  had 
bought  the  finest  and  highest-priced  roses  to  be 
had,  and  expected  ecstatic  praise  of  his  taste  and 
extravagance.  The  "  misunderstanding"  was  final, 
and,  after  a  wretched  evening  and  several  days  of 
tragic  grief,  five  tinted  notes  of  sorrow,  reproach, 
and  pride,  they  each  began  to  flirt  with  some  one 
else  and  to  talk  of  the  inconstancy  of  the  other  sex. 
They  vowed,  of  course,  that  they  would  never 
marry  anybody  on  earth,  and  finally  engaged  them- 
selves to  marry  some  one  else,  who  perhaps, 
had  just  passed  through  a  similar  harrowing  ex- 
perience and  was  yearning  to  be  consoled. 

I  remember  that  Tom  smoked  a  great  deal  dur- 
ing this  tragic  period,  that  he  looked  gloomy,  wore 
only  black  neckties,  and  allowed  a  cold  to  run  on 
until  it  became  thoroughly  settled  and  had  to  be 
nursed  all  the  rest  of  the  winter. 

He  knew  that  smoking  injured  him,  and  he 
doubtless  had  an  idea  that  he  would  end  his  misery 
by  means  of  this  cold,  supplemented  by  nicotine 
poison.     How  near  he  might  have  approached  to 


Florence  Campbell s  Fate.  185 

success  it  would  be  difficult  to  tell,  if  he  had  not 
met  my  sister  Nellie  at  Christmas-time,  and,  after 
having  told  his  woes  to  her,  promised  her,  "  as  a 
friend,"  not  to  smoke  again  for  three  days  and  then 
to  report  to  her.  The  report  was  satisfactory,  and 
she  then  confessed  that  she  had  forsworn  bonbons 
for  the  same  length  of  time,  as  a  sort  of  companion- 
ship in  sacrifice. 

This,  of  course,  impressed  Tom  as  a  truly  re- 
markable test  of  friendship  and  sympathy,  and, 
— well,  what  is  the  use  to  tell  the  rest  ? 

You  will  know  it.  It  had  no  new  features,  so 
far  as  I  can  now  recall,  and  I  believe  that  they  had 
been  betrothed  six  months  before  Nellie  met  grave 
old  Professor  Menlo  and  began  the  study  of  Greek 
roots  and  mythology. 

I  think  that,  perhaps,  Tom  would  have  been  all 
right  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  mythology.  But 
Nellie  was  romantic,  and  the  professor  was  an  en- 
thusiast in  this  branch  of  knowledge,  and  so,  by 
and  by,  Tom,  poor  devil,  took  to  smoking  again — 
this  time  it  was  a  pipe — and  local  papers  were  filled 
with  notices  of  the  romantic  marriage  of  "  Wisdom 
and  Beauty,"  and  poor  little  Nellie  wrote  a  pathetic 
note  to  Tom,  and  sent  it  by  me,  with  frantic  direc- 
tions not  to  allow  him  to  kill  himself  because  she 
had  not  understood  her  own  heart;  but  that  she 
loved  him  truly — as  a  friend — still,  and  he  must 
come  to  see  her  and  her  professor  in  their  new 
home  on  the  hill.  And,  dear,  dear,  what  a  time  I 
had  with  Tom!     It  is  funny  enough  now;  but  even 


1 86  Florence  Campbells  Fate. 

I  felt  sorry  for  him  then,  and  shielded  him  from 
the  least  unnecessary  pain  by  telling  the  boys  that 
they  absolutely  must  not  congratulate  me  on  my 
sister's  marriage,  nor  mention  it  in  any  way  what- 
ever, when  Tom  was  present,  unless  they  wanted 
to  have  trouble  with  me  personally. 

And  to  think  that  Tom  married  Kittie  Johnson 
before  he  had  fairly  finished  his  first  year  in  the 
hospital  service;  and  had  to  take  her  home  for  his 
father  to  support  !  Since  then  I  had  seen  him 
from  time  to  time,  and  heard  of  his  large  practice, 
his  numerous  children,  and  his  elegant  home  ;  but 
he  never  talked  of  his  wife,  although  I  believed 
him  to  be  perfectly  satisfied  with  her.  He  seemed 
content,  was  prosperous  beyond  expectation,  and 
had  grown  fat  and  gouty,  when  I  last  saw  him  at  a 
medical  convention.  He  attributed  his  too  great 
flesh  and  his  gout  to  the  climate  of  his  Western 
home,  and  was  constantly  threatening  to  retire 
from  practice,  and  said  that  he  should  ultimately 
come  to  New  York  to  live. 

Yes,  undoubtedly  Florence  Campbell  is  a  petite 
blonde,  with  little  white  teeth  and  a  roseleaf  cheek, 
thought  I,  and  I  laughed,  and  rang  for  my  carriage. 

II. 

I  do  not  know  that  I  ever  entered  a  more  deli- 
cately perfumed  room — and  I  am  very  sensitive  to 
perfumes — than  the  one  in  which  Florence  Camp- 
bell sat. 


Florence  Campbells  Fate.  1 87 

She  arose  from  her  deep  arm-chair  as  1  entered, 
and,  extending  her  hand,  grasped  mine  with  a  vigor 
unusual  in  a  woman,  even  when  she  is  well. 

"This  is  Dr.  Hamilton?"  she  said,  in  a  clear 
voice,  which  told  nothing  of  pain,  and  was  wholly 
free  from  the  usually  querulous  note  struck  by 
women  who  are  ill,  or  who  think  that  they  are. 
"  This  is  Dr.  Hamilton  ?  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you, 
doctor.  I  am  Florence  Campbell.  You  received 
a  note  from  your  friend,  Dr.  Griswold,  of  Chicago, 
and  one  telling  how  I  came  to  send  it  to  you — how 
I  came  into  possession  of  it."  Direct  of  speech, 
clear  of  voice,  hand  feverish,  but  firm  in  grasp,  I 
commented  mentally,  as  she  spoke. 

This  is  not  what  I  had  expected.  This  is  not  the 
limp  little  blonde  that  I  had  pictured,  on  a  lounge, 
in  tears,  with  the  light  fluffy  hair  in  disorder,  and  a 
tone  of  voice  which  plead  for  sympathy.  This  is 
not  the  figure  I  had  expected  to  see. 

She  stood  with  her  back  to  the  light,  very  erect 
and  well  poised. 

"  Come  to  the  window,"  I  said.  "  Does  your 
head  ache  ?"  That  is  always  a  safe  question  to 
ask,  you  know. 

She  laughed.  "  Oh,  I  don't  know  that  it  does — 
not  particularly.  I  fancy  there  is  not  enough  inside 
of  it  to  ache  much.  Mere  bone  and  vacuity  could 
not  do  a  great  deal  in  that  line,  could  it,  doctor  ?" 
Then  she  laughed  again.  She  looked  me  in  the 
eyes,  and  I  fancied  she  was  diagnosing  me. 

Her  eyes  were  deep,  large,  and  brown,  or  a  dark 


1 88  Florence  Campbell's  Fate. 

gray ;  her  complexion  was  dark  and  clear — al- 
most too  transparent  ;  her  cheeks  were  flushed  a 
little  ;  and  the  light  in  her  eyes  was  unnaturally 
intense. 

She  was  evidently  trying  to  gain  time — to  take 
my  measure. 

"  It  is  always  a  rather  trying  thing  to  get  a  new 
doctor;  don't  you  think  so?"  she  asked,  with  an- 
other little  laugh.  "  I  always  feel  so  foolish  to 
think  I  have  called  him  to  come  for  so  trifling  a 
matter  as  my  ailments  are.  I  am  never  really  ill, 
you  know,"  she  said  with  nervous  haste  ;  "  but  I 
am  not  very  strong,  and  so  I  often  feel — rather — 
under  the  weather,  and  I  always  fancy  that  a  doc- 
tor can  prevent,  or  cure  it ;  but  I  suppose  he  can- 
not. I  shall  really  not  expect  a  great  deal  of  you, 
in  that  line,  doctor.  I  cannot  expect  you  to  fur- 
nish me  with  robust  ancestors,  can  I  ?  Just  so  you 
keep  me  out  of  bed  " — and  here,  for  the  first  time, 
I  noticed  a  slight  tremor  in  her  voice — "just  keep  me 
so  that  I  can  read,  and — so  that  I  shall  not  need  to 
sit  alone,  and — think — I  shall  be  quite  satisfied — 
quite."  She  had  turned  her  face  away,  as  she  said 
the  last  ;  but  I  saw  that  she  was  having  a  hard 
struggle  to  keep  back  the  tears,  notwithstanding 
the  little  laugh  that  followed. 

I  had  felt  her  pulse  ;  it  was  hardly  perceptible, 
and  fluttered  rather  than  beat  ;  and  I  had  watched 
her  closely  as  she  spoke  ;  but  whenever  she  came 
near  the  verge  of  showing  deeper  than  the  surface 
she  broke  in  with  that  non-committal  little  laugh,  or 


Florence  Campbell's  Fate.  1 89 

turned  her  face,  or  half  closed  her  great  eyes,  and 
I  was  foiled.  Her  pulse  and  the  faint  blue  veins 
told  me  one  story  ;  she  tried  to  tell  me  quite  another. 

"  How  are  you  suffering  to-day,"  I  asked. 

She  looked  steadily  at  me  a  moment,  then  lowered 
her  eyes,  raised  her  left  hand  (upon  which  I  remem- 
ber noticing  there  was  a  handsome  ring),  looked  at 
its  palm  a  moment,  held  her  lips  tightly  closed,  and 
then,  with  a  sudden  glance  at  me,  again  as  if  on  the 
defensive  said  : 

"  I  hardly  know  ;  I  am  only  a  little  under  the 
weather  ;  I  am  weak.  I  am  losing  my — grip — on 
myself  ;  I  am — losing  my  grip— on  my — nerves.  I 
cannot  afford  to  do  that."  The  last  was  said  with 
more  emotion  than  she  cared  to  display.  So  she 
arose,  walked  swiftly  to  the  dressing-case,  took  up  a 
lace  handkerchief,  glanced  at  herself  in  the  mirror, 
moved  a  picture  (I  noticed  that  it  was  a  likeness  of 
an  old  gentleman,  perhaps  her  father),  and  returned 
to  a  chair  which  stood  in  the  shadow,  and  then, 
with  a  merry  little  peal  of  laughter,  said  :  "  Well,  I 
don't  wonder,  doctor,  that  you  are  unable  to  diag- 
nose that  case.  It  would  require  a  barometer  to 
do  that  I  fancy,  from  the  amount  of  weather  I  got 
into  it.  But  really,  now,  how  am  I  to  know  what 
is  the  matter  with  me  ?  That  is  for  you  to  say ; 
I  am  not  the  doctor.  If  you  tell  me  it  is  ma- 
laria, as  all  of  you  do,  I  shall  be  perfectly  satisfied 
— and  take  your  powders  with  the  docility  of  an 
infant  in  arms.     I  suppose  it  is  malaria,  don't  you?" 

I  wanted  to  gain  time — to  study  her  a  little.     I 


190  Florence  Campbell's  Fate. 

saw  that  she  was,  or  had  been  really  ill  ;  ill,  that  is, 
in  mind  if  not  in  body.  I  fancied  that  she  had 
succeeded  in  deceiving  Griswold  into  treating 
her  for  some  physical  trouble  which  she  did  not 
have,  or,  if  she  had  it,  only  as  a  result  of  a  much 
graver  malady. 

The  right  branch  may  have  been  found  and 
nipped  off  from  time  time  when  it  grew  uncomfort- 
ably long,  but  the  root,  I  believed,  had  not -been 
touched,  and,  I  thought,  had  not  been  even  sus- 
pected by  her  former  physician. 

We  of  the  profession,  as  you  very  well  know,  do 
not  always  possess  that  abiding  faith  in  the  knowl- 
edge and  skill  of  our  brethren  that  we  demand  and 
expect  from  outsiders. 

We  claim  our  right  to  guess  over  after  our  asso- 
ciates, and  not  always  to  guess  the  same  thing. 

I  believed  that  Griswold  had  not  fully  under- 
stood his  former  patient.  "Sulph.  12,"  indeed! 
Then  I  smiled,  and  said  aloud  : 

"  Dr.  Griswold  writes  me  that  in  such  cases  as 
yours  he  advises  sulph.  12— that  it  has  given  relief. 
Do  you  call  yourself  a  sulphur  patient  ?"  I  watched 
her  narrowly,  and  if  she  did  not  smile  in  a  satirical 
way,  I  was  deceived.  "  Are  you  out  of  that  rem- 
edy ?  and  do  you  want  more  of  it  ?"  I  asked  with  a 
serious  face. 

She  did  not  reply  at  once.  There  seemed  to  be 
a  struggle  in  her  mind  as  to  how  much  she  would 
let  me  know.  Then  she  looked  at  me  attentively 
for  a  moment,  with  a  puzzled  expression,  I  thought ; 


Floreiice  Campbell's  Fate.  191 

an  unutterably  weary  look  crossed  her  face.  She 
said,  slowly,  deliberately  :  "  I  have  no  doubt  sul- 
phur will  do  as  well  as  anything  else.  Oh  !  yes 
— I  am  decidedly  a  sulphur  patient,  no  doubt.  I 
suppose  I  have  taken  several  pints  of  that  inno- 
cent remedy  in  my  time.  A  number  of  physicians 
have  given  it  to  me  from  time  to  time.  Your 
friend  is  not  its  only  devotee.  Sulphur  and  nux — 
nux  and  sulphur !  I  believe  they  cure  anything 
short  of  a  broken  heart,  or  actual  imbecility,  do 
they  not,  doctor  ?"  She  laughed,  not  altogether 
pleasantly. 

How  far  would  she  go.  and  how  far  would  she 
let  me  go,  with  this  humbuggery  ?  I  looked  gravely 
into  her  eyes,  and  said,  "  Certainly  they  will  do  all 
that,  and  more.  They  sometimes  hold  a  patient 
until  a  doctor  can  decide  which  of  those  two  inter- 
esting complaints  is  the  particular  one  to  be  treated. 
In  your  case  I  am  inclined  to  suspect — the — that 
it  is —  not  imbecility.  I  shall  therefore  begin  by 
asking  you  to  be  good  enough  to  tell  me  what  it  is 
that  affects  your  heart." 

I  had  taken  her  wrist  in  my  hand,  as  I  began  to 
speak.  My  finger  was  on  her  *pulse.  It  gave  a 
great  bound,  and  then  beat  rapidly;  and  although 
her  face  grew  a  shade  paler  and  her  eyes  wavered 
as  they  tried  to  look  into  mine,  I  knew  that  I  had 
both  surprised  and  impressed  her. 

She  recovered  herself  instantly,  and  made  up  her 
mind  to  hedge  still  further.  "  If  there  is  anything 
the  matter  with  my  heart,  you  are  the  first  to  sus- 


192  Florence  Campbell's  Fate. 

pect  it.  My  father,  however,  died  of  heart  dis- 
ease, and  I  have — always — hoped  that  I  should — 
die  as  suddenly.  But  I  shall  not  !  I  shall  not  !  I 
am  so — wiry — so  all-enduring.  I  recover!  I  al- 
ways recover !" 

She  said  this  passionately,  and  as  if  it  were  a  grave 
misfortune — as  if  she  were  very  old.  I  pretended 
to  take  it  humorously. 

"Perhaps  at  your  advanced  age  your  father 
might  have  said  the  same." 

She  laughed.  She  saw  a  loophole,  and  immedi- 
ately took  it.  "  Oh,  you  think  I  am  very  young, 
doctor,  but  I  am  not.  People  always  think  me 
younger  than  I  am — at  first.  I  look  older  when 
you  get  used  to  me.     I  am  nearly  thirty." 

I  was  surprised;  I  had  taken  her  to  be  about 
twenty-three. 

"  In  years  or  in  experience  ?"  I  said.  Which  way 
do  you  count  your  age  ?" 

She  got  up  suddenly  again  and  walked  to  the 
dressing-case,  then  to  the  window.  In  doing  so  she 
raised  her  hand  to  her  eyes.  It  was  the  hand  with 
the  lace  handkerchief  in  it. 

"Experience  !"  she  exclaimed;  and  then,  check- 
ing herself.  "  No,  people  never  think  me  so  old — 
not  at  first,"  she  said,  returning  to  her  chair.  "But 
I  suppose  I  am  not  too  old  to  be  cured  with  sulph. 
12,  ami?  Then  she  laughed  her  little  nervous, 
quick  laugh,  and  added:  "  Dear  old  Dr.  Griswold, 
what  faith  he  must  have  in  'sulph.  12.'  and  in  his 
patients.     He  seems  to  think  that  they  were  made 


Florence  Campbells  Fate.  193 

for  each  other,  as  it  were;  and — of  course,  I  am 
not  a  doctor — how  do  I  know  they  were  not  ?" 

"  Miss  Campbell,"  I  said,  stepping  quickly  to  her 
side  and  surprising  her,  "  you  do  not  need  sulphur. 
You  need  to  be  relieved  of  this  strain  on  your 
nerves.  Make  up  your  mind  to  tell  me  your  his- 
tory to-morrow  morning — to  tell  it  all;  I  do  not 
want  some  fairy-tale.  Until  then,  take  these  drops 
to  quiet  your  nerves." 

There  were  tears  in  her  eyes.  She  did  not  at- 
tempt to  hide  them.  They  ran  down  her  cheeks, 
and  she  simply  closed  the  lids  and  let  them  flow. 
I  took  her  lace  handkerchief  and  wiped  her  cheeks. 
Then  I  dropped  it  in  her  lap,  placed  the  phial  on 
her  stand,  took  up  my  hat,  and  left. 


III. 

But  I  did  not  get  her  story  the  next  day,  nor 
the  next,  nor  the  next. 

Her  tact  was  perfectly  mystifying  in  its  intri- 
cacy; her  power  of  evasion  marvellous,  and  her 
study  of  me  amusing.  She  grew  weaker  and  more 
languid  every  day;  but  insisted  that  she  had  no 
pain — "  nothing  upon  which  to  hang  a  symptom," 
she  would  say. 

I  suggested  that  refuge  of  all  puzzled  doctors — a 
change. 

"  A  change  !"  she  said,  wearily.  "  A  change  ! 
Let  me  see,  I  have  been  here  nearly  five  months. 


194  Florence  Campbells  Fate. 

I  stayed  two  months  in  the  last  place.  I  was  nine 
days  in  San  Francisco,  one  year  doing  the  whole  of 
Europe,  and  seven  months  in  Asia.  Yes,  decidedly, 
I  must  need  a  change.  There  are  three  places  left 
for  me  to  try,  which  one  do  you  advise?"  There 
was  a  bitter  little  laugh,  but  her  expression  was 
sweet,  and  her  eyes  twinkled  as  she  glanced  at 
me. 

"  I  am  glad  I  have  three  places  to  choose  from," 
I  said.  "  I  was  afraid  you  were  not  going  to  leave 
so  many  as  that,  and  had  already  begun  to  plan 
'  electric  treatment  '  as  a  final  refuge." 

She  laughed  nervously,  but  I  thought  I  saw  signs 
of  a  mental  change. 

I  had  always  found  that  I  could  do  most  with  her 
by  falling  into  her  own  moods  of  humor  or  merry 
satire  upon  her  own  condition  or  upon  the  various 
stages  of  medical  ignorance  and  pretence  into 
which  we  are  often  driven. 

"  Where  are  these  three  unhappy  places  that  you 
have  so  shamelessly  neglected  ?  Was  it  done  in 
malice  ?  I  sincerely  hope,  for  their  sakes,  that  it  was 
not  so  bad  as  that — that  it  was  a  mere  oversight  on 
your  part,"  I  went  on. 

"  Australia  has  been  spared  my  presence  so  far 
through  malice;  the  other  two,  through  defective 
theology.  I  dislike  the  idea  of  one  of  them  on  ac- 
count of  the  climate,  and  of  the  other,  because  of 
the  stupid  company,"  she  said,  with  a  droll  assump- 
tion of  perplexity;  "  so,  you  see,  I  can't  even  hope 
for  a  pleasant  change  after  death.     Oh,  my  case  is 


Florence  Campbell's  Fate.  195 

quite  hopeless,  I  assure  you,  doctor;  quite!"  She 
laughed  again. 

I  had  her  where  I  wanted  her  now.  I  thought 
by  a  little  adroitness  I  might  get,  at  least,  a  part  of 
the  truth. 

"  So  you  are  really  afraid  to  die,  and  yet  think 
that  you  must,"  I  said,  bluntly. 

She  turned  her  great  luminous  eyes  on  me,  and 
her  lip  curled  slightly,  with  real  scorn,  before  she 
forced  upon  her  face  her  usual  mask  of  good-hum- 
ored sarcasm. 

"  Afraid  !"  she  exclaimed,  "  afraid  to  die  !  afraid 
of  what,  pray  ?  I  cannot  imagine  being  afraid  to 
die.  It  is  life  I  am  afraid  of.  If  I  could  only — " 
This  last  passionately.  She  checked  herself  ab- 
ruptly, and  with  an  evident  effort  resumed  her 
usual  light  air  and  tone.  "  But  it  does  always  seem 
so  absurdly  impossible  to  me,  doctor,  to  hear  grown- 
up people  talk  about  being  afraid  to  die.  It  almost 
surprised  me  into  talking  seriously,  a  reprehensive 
habit  I  never  allow  myself.  A  luxury  few  can  af- 
ford, you  know.  It  skirts  too  closely  the  banks  of 
Tragedy.  One  is  safer  on  the  high  seas  of  Frivol- 
ity— don't  you  think  ?" 

"  Much  safer,  no  doubt,  my  child,"  said  I,  taking 
her  hand,  which  was  almost  as  cold  and  white  as 
marble;  "  much  safer  from  those  deceived  and  con- 
fiding persons  who  prescribe  '  sulph.  12.'  for  the 
broken  heart  and  overwrought  nerves  of  a  little 
woman  who  tries  bravely  to  fly  her  gay  colors  in 
the  face  of  defeat  and  to  whistle  a  tune  at  a  grave." 


196  Florence  Campbells  Fate. 

I  had  called  late,  and  we  were  sitting  in  the  twi- 
light, but  I  saw  tears  fall  on  her  lap,  and  she  did 
not  withdraw  her  hand,  which  trembled  violently. 

I  had  touched  the  wound  roughly — as  I  had  de- 
termined to  do — but,  old  man  as  I  was,  and  used  to 
the  sight  of  suffering  as  I  had  been  for  years,  I 
could  restrain  myself  only  by  an  effort  from  taking 
her  in  my  arms  and  asking  her  to  forget  what  I 
had  said.  She  seemed  so  utterly  shaken.  We  sat 
for  some  moment  in  perfect  silence,  except  for  her 
quick,  smothered  little  sobs,  and  then  she  said,  pas- 
sionately: 

"  Oh,  my  God  !  doctor,  how  did  you  know  ? 
And  then,  with  a  flash  of  fear  in  her  voice,  "  Who 
told  you  ?  No  one  has  talked  me  over  to  you  ?  No 
one  has  written  to  you  ?" 

"  I  know  nothing  except  what  I  have  seen  of 
your  brave  fight,  my  child.  All  the  information  I 
have  had  about  you,  from  outside,  was  contained  in 
that  valuable  little  note  of  introduction  from  Gris- 
wold." 

In  spite  of  her  tears  and  agitation  she  smiled, 
but  looked  puzzled,  as  I  afterward  recalled  she  al- 
ways did  when  I  mentioned  his  name,  or  spoke  as 
if  she  knew  him  well. 

"  I  have  not  watched  you  for  nothing.  And  I 
never  treat  a  patient  without  first  diagnosing  his 
case.  I  do  not  say  that  I  am  always  right.  I  am 
not  vain  of  the  methods  nor  of  the  progress  of 
my  profession;  but  I  am,  at  least,  not  blind,  and  I 
have  always  been  interested  in  you.     I  should  like 


Florence  Campbells  Fate.  igy 

to  help  you,  if  you  will  let  me.  I  can  do  nothing 
for  you  in  the  dark."  Then  dropping  my  voice, 
significantly :  "  Does  he  know  where  you  are  ? 
Does  he  know  you  are  ill  ?" 

There  was  a  long  silence.  I  did  not  know  but 
that  she  was  offended.  She  was  struggling  for 
command  of  her  voice,  and  for  courage.  Presently 
she  said,  in  a  hoarse  whisper,  which  evidently 
shocked  her  as  much  as  it  startled  me,  so  unnat- 
ural did  it  sound: 

"Who?     My  husband?" 

"Your  husband!"  I  exclaimed.  "Are  you — is 
there — I  did  not  know  you  were  married.  Why 
did  you  always  allow  me  to  call  you  Miss  Camp- 
bell ?" 

"  I  do  not  know,"  she  said,  wearily.  "  It  made 
no  difference  to  me,  and  it  seemed  to  please  your 
fancy  to  treat  me  as  a  child.  But  I  never  really 
noticed  that  you  did  always  call  me  Miss.  If  I 
had,  I  should  not  have  cared.  What  difference 
could  it  make  to  me — or  to  you — what  prefix  you 
put  to  my  name  ?" 

"  But  I  did  not  know  you  were  married,"  I  said 
almost  sharply. 

She  looked  up,  startled  for  a  moment;  but  re- 
covering, as  from  some  vague  suspicion,  in  an  in- 
stant she  said,  smiling  a  little,  and  with  evident 
relief,  plunging  into  a  new  opening: 

"  That  had  nothing  to  do  with  my  case.  There 
was  no  need  to  discuss  family  relations.  I  never 
thought  of  whether  you  were  married  or  not.     You 


198  Florence  Campbelts  Fate. 

were  my  doctor — I  your  patient.  What  our  fam- 
ily relations,  wardrobes,  or  political  affiliations 
might  be  seem  to  me  quite  aside  from  that.  We 
may  choose  to  talk  of  them  together,  or  we  may 
not,  as  the  case  may  be.  And  in  my  case,  it  would 
not  be — edifying."  There  was  a  moment's  pause, 
then  she  said,  rather  impatiently,  but  as  if  the  new 
topic  were  a  relief  to  her:  "The  idea  that  a  wom- 
an must  be  ticketed  as  married  or  unmarried,  to 
every  chance  acquaintance,  is  repellent  to  me. 
Men  are  not  so  ticketed — and  that  is  right.  It  is 
vulgar  to  suppose  a  sign  is  needed  to  prevent  tres- 
pass, or  to  tempt  approach.  '  Miss  Jones,  this  is 
Mr.  Smith.'  What  does  it  tell  ?"  She  was  talking 
very  rapidly  now — nervously.  "  It  tells  her,  '  Here 
is  a  gentleman  to  whom  I  wish  to  introduce  you. 
If  you  find  him  agreeable  you  will  doubtless  learn 
more  of  him  later  on.'  It  tells  him,  '  Here  is  a 
lady.  She  is  not  married.'  Her  family  relations — 
her  most  private  affairs — are  thrust  in  his  face  be- 
fore she  has  even  said  good  evening  to  him.  I 
think  it  is  vulgar,  and  it  is  certainly  an  unnecessary 
personality.  What  his  or  her  marital  relations  may 
be  would  seem  to  come  a  good  deal  later  in  the 
stage  of  acquaintance,  don't  you  think  so,  doctor  ?" 
She  laughed,  but  it  was  not  like  herself.  Even  the 
laugh  had  changed.     She  was  fighting  for  time. 

"  It  is  a  new  idea  to  me,"  I  said,  "  and  I  confess 
I  like  it.  Come  to  think  of  it,  it  is  a  trifle  prema- 
ture— this  thrusting  a  title  intended  to  indicate 
private  relations  onto  a  name  used  on  all  public 


Florence  Campbell's  Fate.  199 

occasions.  By  Jove!  it  is  absurd.  I  never  thought 
of  it  before;  but  it  is  never  done  with  men,  is  it? 
'General,'  'Mr.,'  'Dr.'— none  of  them.  All  relate 
to  him  as  an  individual,  leaving  vast  fields  of  pos- 
sibilities all  about  him.  '  Mrs.,'  '  Miss  ' — they  tell 
one  thing,  and  one  only.  That  is  of  a  private 
nature — a  personal  association.  You  have  started 
me  on  a  new  line  of  thought,  and,"  said  I,  taking 
her  hand  again,  "  you  have  given  me  so  much  that 
is  new  to  think  of  to-night  that  I  will  go  home  to 
look  over  the  budget.  You  are  tired  out.  Go  to 
bed  now.  Order  your  tea  brought  up.  Here  is  an 
order  to  see  to  anything  you  may  ask,  promptly. 
Beesley,  the  manager,  is  an  old  friend  of  mine. 
Any  order  you  may  give,  if  you  send  it  down  with 
this  note  from  me,  will  be  obeyed  at  once.  I  shall 
come  to-morrow.     Good-night." 

I  put  the  order  on  the  table,  at  her  side.  I  know 
my  voice  was  husky.  It  startled  me,  as  I  heard  it. 
She  sat  perfectly  still,  but  she  laid  her  other  hand 
on  top  of  mine,  with  a  light  pressure,  and  her  voice 
sounded  tired  and  full  of  tears. 

"  Good-night.  You  are  very  kind — very  thought- 
ful.    I  will  be  brave  to-morrow.     Good-night." 

That  night  I  drove  past  and  saw  a  light  in  her 
window  at  one  o'clock.  "Poor  child!"  I  said; 
"  will  she  be  brave  enough  to  tell  me  to-morrow,  or 
will  she  die  with  her  burden,  and  her  gay  little 
laugh  on  her  lips  ?" 


200  Florence  Campbells  Fate. 


IV. 


The  next  day  I  called  earlier  than  usual.  I  had 
spent  an  almost  sleepless  night,  wondering  what  I 
could  do  for  this  beautiful,  lovable  woman,  who 
seemed  to  be  all  alone  in  the  world,  and  who  evi- 
dently felt  that  she  must  remain  apart  and  deso- 
late. 

What  had  caused  her  to  leave  her  husband  ?  Or 
had  he  left  her?  What  for?  What  kind  of  a  man 
was  he  ?  Did  she  love  him,  and  was  she  breaking 
her  heart  for  him?  or  did  he  stand  between  her 
and  some  other  love  ?  Had  she  married  young,  and 
made  a  mistake  that  was  eating  her  life  out  ? 
Whose  fault  was  it  ?     How  could  I  help  her  ? 

All  these  and  a  thousand  other  questions  forced 
themselves  upon  me,  and  none  of  the  answers  came 
to  fit  the  case.  Answers  there  were  in  plenty,  but 
they  were  not  for  these  questions  nor  for  this  wom- 
an—not for  this  delicate  flower  of  her  race. 

As  I  stepped  into  the  hotel  office  to  send  my 
card  to  "  Parlor  13,"  as  was  my  custom,  the  clerk 
looked  up  with  his  perfunctory  smile  and  said, "  Go' 
morning,  doctor.  Got  so  in  the  habit  'coming 
here  lately,  s'pose  it'll  take  quite  a  while  to  taper 
off.     That  about  the  size  of  it  ?" 

I  stared  at  the  young  man  in  utter  bewilderment. 

"  Ha!  ha!  ha!  I  believe  you'd  really  forgot  al- 
ready she'd  gone;"  and  then,  with  a  quick  flash  of 
surprise    and     intelligent,    detective    shrewdness, 


Florence  Campbells  Fate.  201 

"  You  knew  she  was  going,  doctor  ?  She  did  not 
skip  her  little  bill,  did  she  ?  Of  course  not.  Her 
husband  was  in  such  a  deuce  of  a  hurry  to  catch 
the  early  train,  the  night-clerk  said  he  was  ringing 
his  bell  the  blessed  night  for  fear  they'd  get  left. 
Front!  take  water  to  273.  You  hadn't  been  gone 
five  minutes  last  night,  when  he  came  skipping 
down  here  with  your  check  and  order,  and  we  just 
had  to  make  things  hum  to  get  cash  enough  to- 
gether to  meet  it  for  her;  but  we  made  it,  and  so 
they  got  off  all  right." 

"  Have  you  got  my  check  here  yet  ?"  asked  I,  in 
in  a  tone  that  arrested  the  attention  of  the  other 
clerk,  who  looked  up  in  surprise. 

"  Good  heavens  !  no.  Do  you  think  we're  made 
of  ready  money,  just  because  you  are  ?  That  check 
was  in  the  bank  and  part  of  the  cash  in  that  desk 
the  first  thing  after  banking  hours,"  said  he,  open- 
ing out  the  register  and  reaching  for  a  bunch  of 
pens  behind  him.  "  You  see  it  cleaned  us  out  last 
night.  I  couldn't  change  two  dollars  for  a  man 
this  morning.  I  told  Campbell  last  night  that  you 
must  think  hotels  were  run  queer,  to  expect  us  to 
cash  a  five-thousand  dollar  check  on  five  minutes' 
notice.  Couldn't  'a'  done  it  at  all  if  't  hadn't  been 
pay-night  for  servants  and  the  rest  of  us.  We  all 
had  to  wait  till  to-day.  But  the  old  man  '11  tell 
you.     Here  he  comes." 

"Why,  hello!  doctor,  old  boy,"  said  Beesley, 
coming  up  from  behind  and  clapping  me  vigorous- 
ly on  the   shoulder.     "  Didn't   expect   to  see  the 


202  Florence  Campbells  Fate. 

light  of  your  countenance  around  here  again  so 
soon.  Thought  we  owed  it  all  to  your  profession- 
al ardor  for  that  charming  patient  of  yours  up  in 
13.  They  got  off  all  right,  but  if  any  other  man 
but  you  had  sent  that  order  and  check  down  here 
for  us  to  cash  last  night  I'd  have  told  him  to  make 
tracks.  Of  course,  I  understood  that  they  were 
called  away  suddenly — unexpectedly,  and  all  that. 
He  told  me  all  about  it,  and  that  you  did  not  finish 
the  trade  till  the  last  minute;  but — " 

"  Trade  ?  "  gasped  I,  in  spite  of  my  determination 
to  hear  all  before  disclosing  anything.     "  Trade  ?  " 

"  Oh,  come  off.  Don't  be  so  consumedly  skittish 
about  the  use  of  English,  I  suppose  you  want  me 
to  say  that  the  '  transaction  between  you  was  not 
concluded,'  etc.,  etc.  Oh,  you're  a  droll  one,  doc- 
tor." He  appeared  to  notice  a  change  on  my  face, 
which  he  evidently  misconstrued,  and  he  added, 
gayly.  "  Oh,  it  was  all  right,  my  boy,  as  long  as  it 
was  you — glad  to  do  you  a  good  turn  any  day  ;  but 
what  a  queer  idea  for  that  little  woman  to  marry 
such  a  man  !  How  did  it  happen  ?  I'd  like  to 
know  the  history  !  Every  time  I  saw  him  come 
swelling  around  I  made  up  mind  to  ask  you  about 
them,  and  then  I  always  forgot  it  when  I  saw  you. 
When  he  told  me  you  had  been  his  wife's  guardian 
I  thought  some  of  kicking  you  the  next  good 
chance  I  got,  for  allowing  the  match,  and  for  not 
telling  me  you  had  such  a  pretty  ward.  You 
always  were  a  deep  rascal — go  off  !  "  He  rattled 
on. 


Florence  Campbells  Fate.  203 

Several  times  I  had  decided  to  speak,  but  as 
often  restrained  myself.  My  blank  face  and  un- 
settled manner  appeared  to  touch  his  sense  of  hu- 
mor. He  .concluded  that  it  was  good  acting.  I 
decided  to  confirm  the  mistake,  until  I  had  time 
to  think  it  all  over.  Finally,  I  said,  as  carelessly 
as  I  could  : 

"  How  long  had  this — a — husband  been  here  ? 
That  is — when  did  he  get  back  ?  " 

"  Been  here  !  get  back  !  Been  here  all  the  time; 
smoked  more  good  cigars  and  surrounded  more  wine 
than  any  other  one  man  in  the  house.  Oh,  he  was  a 
Jim-dandy  of  a  fellow  for  a  hotel !  "  Then,  with 
sudden  suspicion  :  "  Why  ?  Had  he  told  you  he'd 
go  away  before  ?  Oh  !  I — see  !  That  was  the 
trade  ?  Paid  him  to  skip,  hey  ?  M — m — m— yes  ! 
I  think  I  begin  to  catch  on."  He  could  hardly 
restrain  his  mirth,  and  winked  at  me  in  sheer 
ecstasy. 

I  went  slowly  out.  When  I  arrived  at  the  house 
I  directed  the  servant  to  say  to  anyone  who  might 
call  that  the  doctor  was  not  at  home.  I  went  to 
my  room  and  wrote  to  Dr.  Griswold,  asking  him 
for  information  about  Florence  Campbell,  the  fair 
patient  he  had  sent  me.  "Who  was  she?  What 
did  he  know  of  her  ?  Where  were  her  friends  ? " 
I  told  him  nothing  of  this  last  development,  but 
asked  for  an  immediately  reply,  adding — "  for  an 
important  reason." 

Three  days  later  a  telegram  was  handed  to  me  as 
I  drove  up  to  my  office.     It  was  this  : 


204  Florence  Campbell's  Fate. 

"  Never  heard  of  her.     Why  ?     Griswold  ?" 

I  did  not  sleep  that  night.  For  the  first  time  my 
faith  in  Florence  Campbell  wavered.  Up  to  that 
time  I  had  blamed  her  husband  for  everything.  I 
had  woven  around  her  a  web  of  plausible  circum- 
stances which  made  her  the  unwilling  victim  of  a 
designing  villain — an  expert  forger,  no  doubt,  who 
used  her,  without  her  own  knowledge,  as  a  decoy— 
a  man  of  whom  she  was  both  ashamed  and  afraid, 
but  from  whom  she  could  not  escape. 

But  how  was  all  that  to  be  reconciled  with  this 
revelation  ?  Griswold  did  not  know  her.  How 
about  his  introduction  and  that  "  sulph.  12  "?  I 
looked  through  my  desk  for  Griswold's  note.  It 
was  certainly  his  handwriting  ;  but  I  noticed,  for 
the  first  time,  that  it  did  not  mention  her  name. 

Perhaps  this  was  a  loop-hole  through  which  I 
might  bring  my  fair  patient — in  whom  I  was  begin- 
ning to  fear  I  had  taken  too  deep  an  interest — with- 
out discredit  to  herself. 

Might  she  not  have  changed  her  name  since 
Griswold  treated  her  ?  I  determined  to  give  her 
the  benefit  of  this  doubt  until  I  could  be  sure  that 
it  had  no  foundation. 

I  felt  relieved  by  this  respite,  and,  heartily 
ashamed  of  the  unjust  suspicion  of  the  moment  be- 
fore, I  gave  no  hint  of  it  in  the  letter  I  now  wrote 
Griswold,  describing  the  lady,  and  in  which  I  en- 
closed his  letter  of  introduction  to  me. 

The  next  few  days  I  went  about  my  practice  in 
a  dream,  and  it  was  no  doubt  due  to  fortuitous  cir- 


Florence  Campbells  Fate.  205 

cumstances  rather  than  to  my  skill  that  several  of 
my  patients  still  live  to  tell  the  tale  of  their  suffer- 
ing and  of  my  phenomenal  ability  to  cope  with  dis- 
ease in  all  its  malignant  power. 


In  due  time  Griswold's  letter  came.  I  went  into 
my  office  to  read  it.  I  told  myself  that  I  had  no 
fears  for  the  good  name  of  Florence  Campbell.  I 
knew  that  some  explanation  would  be  made  that 
would  confirm  me  in  my  opinion  of  her  ;  but,  for 
all  that,  I  locked  the  door,  and  my  hand  was  less 
steady  than  I  liked  to  see  it,  as  I  tore  the  end  of 
the  envelope. 

I  even  remember  thinking  vaguely  that  I  usually 
took  time  to  open  my  letters  with  more  precision 
and  with  less  disregard  for  the  untidy  appearance 
of  their  outer  covering  afterward.  I  hesitated  to 
read  beyond  the  first  line,  although  I  had  so  has- 
tened to  get  that  far.  I  read  :  "  My  dear  old 
friend,"  and  then  turned  the  letter  over  to  see  how 
long  it  was — how  much  probable  information  it 
contained.  There  were  four  closely  written  pages. 
I  wondered  if  it  could  all  be  about  Florence  Camp- 
bell, and  was  vaguely  afraid  that  it  was — and  that 
it  was  not.  I  remembered  looking  at  the  clock 
when  I  came  into  the  office.  It  was  nearly  six 
o'clock.  I  laid  the  letter  down  and  went  to  the 
cooler  and  got  oui  a  bottle  of  Vichy.     I  sat  it  and 


206  Florence  Campbells  Fate. 

some  wine  by  my  elbow  on  the  desk,  and  took  up 
the  letter. 

"  I  never  heard  of  anyone  by  the  name  of  Flor- 
ence Campbell,  so  far  as  I  can  recall.  I  certainly 
never  had  a  patient  by  that  name.  Some  months 
ago  I  gave  the  letter  you  enclose — which  I  certain- 
ly did  write — to  a  patient  of  mine  who  was  on  her 
way  to  Europe  and  expected  to  stay  some  time  in 
New  York  on  her  way  through. 

"  She,  however,  was  in  no  way  like  the  lady  you 
describe.  Her  name  was  Kittie  Hatfield,  and  she 
was  small,  with  dreamy  blue  eyes  and  flaxen  hair — 
a  perfect  woman,  in  fact."  Oh  !  Tom  :  Tom  ! 
thought  I — true  to  your  record,  to  the  last  !  I  had 
long  since  ceased  to  wonder  at  the  lapse,  however, 
for  Florence  Campbell  herself  was  surely  sufficient 
explanation  of  all  that.  "  I  understood  " — the  let- 
ter went  on — "  that  Kittie  did  not  stop  but  a  few 
days  in  New  York,  when  she  was  joined  by  the 
party  with  which  she  was  to  travel.  She  stayed  at 
the  F Avenue  Hotel,  I  have  learned,  and  be- 
came intimate  with  some  queer  people  there — much 
to  the  indignation  of  her  brother,  when  he  learned 
of  it." 

I  laid  the  letter  down  and  put  my  head  on  my 
arms,  folded  as  they  were  on  the  desk.  I  was  dizzy 
and  tired.  When  I  raised  my  head  it  was  dark.  I 
got  up,  lighted  the  gas,  and  found  myself  stiff  and 
as  if  I  had  been  long  in  a  forced  and  unnatural 
position.     I  recalled  that  I  had  been  indignant. 

This  brother  of  the  silly-pated,  blue-eyed  girl  had 


Florence  Campbell's  Fate.  207 

not  liked  her  to  know  Florence  Campbell,  indeed  ! 
He  was,  no  doubt,  a  precious  fool — naturally  would 
be,  with  such  a  sister,  I  commented  mentally. 
What  else,  I  wondered,  had  Griswold  found  out  ? 
Was  the  rest  of  this  old  fool's  letter  about  her  ?  I 
began  where  I  had  left  off. 

"  I  have  since  learned  from  him  that  the  man — 
whose  name  was  Campbell — was  a  foreigner  of 
some  kind,  with  a  decidedly  vague,  not  to  say,  hazy 
reputation,  and  that  his  wife,  who  was  supposed  to 
be  an  invalid,  and  an  American  of  good  family, 
never  appeared  in  public,  and  so  was  never  seen  by 
him — that  is  by  Will  Hatfield — but  was  only  known 
to  him  through  Kittie's  enraptured  eyes.  She  was 
said  to  be  bright  and  pretty.  Kittie  is  the  most 
generous  child  alive  in  her  estimate  of  other  women; 
however,  he  thinks  it  possible  that  Kittie  either 
gave  her  the  letter  from  me  to  you,  and  asked  her 
to  have  proper  medical  care,  or  else  that  the 
woman,  or  her  husband,  got  hold  of  it  in  a  less 
legitimate  way  ;  which  I  think  quite  likely.  Kittie 
thought  the  Campbell  woman  was  charming."  The 
"  Campbell  woman,"  indeed  !  I  felt  like  a  thief, 
even  to  read  such  rubbish,  and  I  should  have  en- 
joyed throttling  the  whole  ill-natured  gossipping  set 
— not  omitting  flaxen-haired  Kittie  herself. 

I  determined  to  finish  the  letter,  however. 

"  Hatfield  is  so  ashamed  of  his  sister's  friendship 
for  the  woman  that  I  had  the  utmost  difficulty  in 
making  him  tell  me  the  whole  truth,  but,  from 
what   I  gathered  yesterday,  he  thinks  them  most 


208  Florence  Campbell's  Fate. 

likely  the  head  of  a  gang  of  counterfeiters  or  forg- 
ers and — " 

I  read  no  further,  or,  if  I  did,  I  can  recall  only 
that.  It  was  burned  into  my  brain,  and  when  a 
loud  pounding  on  my  office-door  aroused  me,  I 
found  the  letter  twisted  and  torn  into  a  hundred 
pieces,  the  Vichy  and  wine-bottles  at  my  side  half- 
empty,  and  the  hands  of  the  clock  pointing  to 
half-past  ten. 

"  Doctor,  doctor,"  called  my  lackey;  "  oh,  doc- 
tor! Oh,  lord,  I'm  afraid  something's  wrong  with 
the  doctor,  but  I'm  afraid  to  break  in  the  door." 

I  went  to  the  door  to  prevent  a  scene.  One  of 
my  best  patients  stood  there,  with  Morgan,  the 
man.  Both  of  them  were  pale  and  full  of  sup- 
pressed excitement. 

"  Heavens  and  earth,  doctor,  we  were  afraid  you 
were  dead.  I've  been  waiting  here  a  good  hour 
for  you  to  come  home.  No  one  knew  you  were  in, 
till  Morgan  peeped  over  the  transom.  What  in 
the  devil  is  the  matter  ?  "  said  my  patient. 

"Tired  out,  went  to  sleep,"  said  I;  but  I  did 
not  know  my  own  voice  as  I  spoke.  It  sounded 
distant,  and  its  tones  were  strange. 

They  both  looked  at  me  suspiciously,  and  with 
evident  anxiety  as  to  my  mental  condition.  I 
caught  at  the  means  of  escape. 

"  I  am  too  tired  to  see  anyone  to-night.  In  fact, 
I  am  not  well.  You  will  have  to  let  me  off  this 
time.  Get  Dr.  Talbott,  next  door,  if  anyone  is 
sick;  I  am  going  to  bed.     Good-night." 


Florence  Campbell's  Fate.  209 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Then  he  said,  wearily: 
"  You  are  a  young  man,  doctor.  You  have  taken 
the  chair  I  left  vacant  at  the  college.  I  would 
never  have  told  the  story  to  you,  perhaps,  only  I 
wanted  you  to  know  why  I  left  the  class  in  your 
care  so  suddenly  this  morning,  when  I  uncovered 
the  beautiful  face  of  the  '  subject '  you  had  brought 
from  the  morgue  for  me  to  give  my  closing  lecture 
upon.  That  class  of  shallow-pated  fellows  have 
not  learned  yet  that  doctors — even  old  fellows  like 
me — know  a  good  deal  less  than  they  think  they 
do  about  the  human  race — themselves  included." 

I  stammered  some  explanation  of  the  circum- 
stances, and  again  there  was  a  long  silence. 

Then  he  said: 

"  Found  drowned,  was  she  ?  Poor  girl !  Do 
you  believe,  with  that  face,  she  was  ever  a  bad 
woman  ?  Or  that  she  had  anything  to  do  with  the 
rascality  of  her  husband,  even  if  he  were  con- 
sciously a  rascal  ?  and  who  is  to  judge  of  that, 
knowing  so  little  of  him  ?  Did  I  ever  recover  the 
five  thousand  dollars  ?  Did  I  attempt  to  recover 
it  ?  Oh,  no.  All  this  happened  nearly  ten  years 
ago  now;  and  if  that  were  all  it  had  cost  me  I 
should  not  mind.  The  hotel  people  never  knew. 
Why  should  they  ?  This  is  the  first  time  I  have 
told  the  story.  You  think  I  am  an  old  fool  ? 
Well,  well,  perhaps  I  am — perhaps  I  am;  who  can 
say  what  any  of  us  are,  or  what  we  are  not  ? 
Thirty  years  ago  I  knew  that  I  understood  myself 
and   everybody   else  perfectly.      To-day   I   know 


210  Florence  Campbell's  Fate. 

equally  well  that  I  understand  neither  the  one  nor 
the  other.  We  learn  that  fact,  and  then  we  die — 
and  that  is  about  all  we  do  learn.  You  wonder, 
after  what  I  tell  you,  if  the  beautiful  face  at  the 
demonstration  class  this  morning  was  really  hers, 
or  whether  a  strong  likeness  led  my  eyes  and 
nerves  astray  You  wonder  if  she  drowned  herself, 
and  why  ?  Was  it  an  accident  ?  Did  he  do  it  ? 
This  last  will  be  decided  by  each  one  according  as 
he  judges  of  Florence  Campbell  and  her  husband 
— of  who  and  what  they  were.  Perhaps  I  shall  try 
to  find  him  now.  Not  for  the  money,  but  to  learn 
why  she  married  the  man  he  seemed  to  be.  It  is 
hard  to  tell  what  I  should  learn.  It  is  not  even 
easy  to  know  just  what  I  should  like  to  learn;  and 
perhaps,  after  all,  it  is  better  not  to  know  more — 
who  shall  say?" 

And  the  doctor  bade  me  good-night  and  bowed 
himself  out  to  his  carriage  with  his  old  courtesy, 
and  left  me  alone  with  the  strange,  sad  story  of 
the  beautiful  girl  whose  lifeless  form  had  furnished 
the  subject  of  my  first  lecture  to  a  class  of  medical 
students. 


flDp  patient's  Storp. 


"  Things  are  cruel  and  blind;  their  strength  detains  and  deforms: 

And  the  wearying  ivings  of  the  tnitid  still  beat  up  the  stream  of 
their  storms. 

Still,  as  one  swimming  up  stream,  they  strike  out  blind  in  the 
blast. 

In  thunders  of  vision  and  dream,  and  lightning  of  future  and 
past. 

We  are  baffleu  ana  caugnt  in  the  current,  and  bruised  upon 
edges  of  shoals  ; 

As  weeds  or  as  reeds  m  the  torrent  of  things  are  the  wind- 
shaken  souls. " 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne. 


■MY  PATIENT'S  STORY. 


Perhaps  I  may  have  told  you  before,  that  at  the 
time  of  which  I  speak,  my  Summer  home — where  I 
preferred  to  spend  much  more  than  half  of  the 
year — was  on  a  sandy  beach  a  few  miles  out  of 
New  York,  and  also  that  I  had  retired  from  active 
practice  as  a  physician,  even  when  I  was  in  the  city. 

Notwithstanding  these  two  facts,  I  was  often 
called  in  consultation,  both  in  and  out  of  the  city; 
and  was  occasionally  compelled  to  take  a  case 
entirely  into  my  own  hands,  through  some  acci- 
dent or  unforeseen  circumstance. 

It  was  one  of  these  accidents  which  brought  the 
patient  whose  story  I  am  about  to  tell  you,  under 
my  care. 

I  can  hardly  say  now,  why  I  retained  the  case 
instead  of  turning  it  over  to  some  brother  practi- 
tioner, as  was  my  almost  invariable  habit;  but  for 
some  reason  I  kept  it  in  my  own  hands,  and,  as  it 
was  the  only  one  for  which  I  was  solely  responsible 
at  the  time,  I  naturally  took  more  than  ordinary 
interest  in  and  paid  more  than  usual  attention  to 
all  that  seemed  to  me  to  bear  upon  it. 

As  you  know  I  am  an  "old  school  "  or  "  regular" 
physician,  although  that  did  not  prevent  me  from 

213 


214  My  Patient's  Story. 

consulting  with,  and  appreciating  the  strong  points 
of  many  of  those  who  were  of  other,  and  younger 
branches  of  the  profession. 

This  peculiarity  had  subjected  me,  in  times  gone 
by,  to  much  adverse  criticism  from  some  of  my 
colleagues  who  belonged  to  that  rigidly  orthodox 
faction  which  appears  to  feel  that  it  is  a  much  bet- 
ter thing  to  allow  a  patient  to  die  "  regularly" — as 
it  were — than  it  is  to  join  forces  with  one,  who, 
being  of  us,  is  still  not  with  us  in  theory  and  prac- 
tice. 

Recognizing  that  we  were  all  purblind  at  best, 
and  that  there  was  and  still  is,  much  to  learn  in 
every  department  of  medicine,  it  did  not  always 
seem  to  me  that  it  was  absolutely  necessary  to  re- 
ject, without  due  consideration,  the  guesses  of 
other  earnest  and  careful  men,  even  though  they 
might  differ  from  me  in  the  prefix  to  the  "  pathy" 
which  forms  the  basis  of  the  conjecture. 

We  are  all  wrong  so  often  that  it  has  never  ap- 
peared to  be  a  matter  of  the  first  importance — it 
does  not  present  itself  to  my  mind  as  absolutely 
imperative — that  it  should  be  invariably  the  same 
wrong,  or  that  all  of  the  mistakes  should  neces- 
sarily follow  the  beaten  track  of  the  "  old  school." 

I  had  arrived  at  that  state  of  beatitude  where  I 
was  not  unwilling  for  a  life  to  be  saved — or  even 
for  pain  to  be  alleviated,  by  other  methods  than 
my  own. 

I  do  not  pretend  that  this  exalted  ethical  status 
came  to  me  all  at  once,  nor  at  a  very  early  stage  of 


My  Paticnfs  Story.  215 

my  career  ;  but  it  came,  and  I  had  reaped  the 
whirlwind  of  wrath,  as  I  have  just  hinted  to  you. 

So  when  my  patient  let  me  know,  after  a  time, 
that  he  had  been  used  to  homeopathic  treatment, 
I  at  once  suggested  that  he  send  for  some  one  of 
that  school  to  take  charge  of  his  case. 

He  declined — somewhat  reluctantly,  I  thought, 
still,  quite  positively.  But,  in  the  course  of  events, 
when  I  felt  that  a  consultation  was  due  to  him  as 
well  as  to  myself,  I  asked  him  if  he  would  not  pre- 
fer that  the  consulting  physician  should  be  of  that 
school. 

He  admitted  that  he  would,  and  I  assured  him 
that  I  should  be  pleased  to  send  for  any  one  he 
might  name. 

He  knew  no  doctor  here,  he  said,  and  left  it  to 
me  to  send  for  the  one  in  whom  I  had  the  greatest 
confidence. 

It  is  at  this  point  my  story  really  begins. 

I  stopped  on  my  way  uptown  to  arrange,  with 
Dr.  Hamilton,  of  Madison  Avenue,  a  consultation 
that  afternoon,  at  three  o'clock.  I  told  the  doctor 
all  that  I,  myself,  knew  at  that  time,  of  my  pa- 
tient's history.  Three  weeks  before  I  had  been  in 
a  Fifth  Avenue  stage  ;  a  gentleman  had  politely 
arisen  to  offer  his  seat  to  a  lady  at  the  moment  that 
the  stage  gave  a  sudden  lurch  which  threw  them 
both  violently  against  each  other  and  against  the 
end  of  the  stage. 

He  broke  the  fall  for  her  ;  but  he  received  a 
blow  on  the  head,  which  member  came  in  contact 


216  My  Patients  Story. 

with  the  money-box,  with  a  sharp  crack.  Accus- 
tomed to  the  sight  of  pain  and  suffering  as  I  was, 
the  sound  of  the  blow  and  his  suddenly  livid  face 
gave  me  a  feeling  of  sickness  which  did  not  wholly 
leave  me  for  an  hour  afterward.  Involuntarily  I 
caught  him  in  my  arms — he  was  a  slightly  built  man 
— and  directed  the  driver  to  stop  at  the  first  hotel. 

The  gentleman  was  unconscious  and  I  feared  he 
had  sustained  a  serious  fracture  of  the  skull.  He 
was  evidently  a  man  of  culture,  and  I  thought  not 
an  American.  I  therefore  wished,  if  possible,  to 
save  him  a  police  or  hospital  experience. 

By  taking  him  into  the  first  hotel  I  reasoned,  we 
could  examine  him  ;  learn  who  and  what  he  was, 
where  he  lived,  and,  after  reviving  him,  send  him 
home  in  a  carriage. 

The  process  of  bringing  him  back  to  conscious- 
ness was  slow,  and  as  the  papers  on  his  person, 
which  we  felt  at  liberty  to  examine,  gave  no  clue  to 
his  residence,  we  concluded  to  put  him  to  bed  and 
trust  to  farther  developments  to  show  us  what  to 
do  in  the  matter  of  removal.  The  lady  on  whose 
account  he  had  received  the  injury  had  given  me 
her  card,  which  bore  a  name  well  known  on  the 
Avenue,  and  had  stated  that  she  would,  if  neces- 
sary, be  responsible  for  all  expense  at  the  hotel. 

It  was  deemed  best,  therefore,  to  put  him  to  bed, 
as  I  said  before,  and  wait  for  him  to  indicate,  for 
himself,  the  next  move.  I  placed  in  the  safe  of  the 
hotel  his  pocketbook,  which  contained  a  large  sum 
of  money  (large  that  is,  for  a  man  to  carry  on  his 


My  Patient's  Story.  217 

person  in   these  days  of  cheques  and   exchanges) 
and   his  watch,  which  was  a  handsome   one,   with 
this   inscription    on  the  inside  cover,  "  T.  C.  from 
Florence." 

The  cards  in  his  pocket  bore  different  names  and 
addresses,  mostly  foreign,  but  the  ones  I  took  for 
his  own  were  finely  engraved,  and  read  "  Mr.  T.  C. 
Lathro,"  nothing  more.  No  address,  no  business; 
simply  calling  cards,  of  a  fashionable  size,  and  of 
the  finest  quality. 

This,  as  I  say,  was  about  three  weeks  before  I 
concluded  to  call  Dr.  Hamilton  in  consultation  ; 
and  I  had  really  learned  very  little  more  of  my  pa- 
tient's affairs  than  these  facts  taken  from  his  pocket 
that  first  day  while  he  was  still  unconscious. 

He  was  silent  about  himself,  and  while  he  had 
slowly  grown  better  his  progress  toward  health  did 
not  satisfy  me,  nor  do  I  think  that  he  was  wholly 
of  opinion,  that  I  was  doing  quite  all  that  should 
be  done  to  hasten  his  recovery. 

He  was  always  courteous,  self-poised,  and  able 
to  bear  pain  bravely;  but  I  thought  he  watched  me 
narrowly,  and  I  several  times  detected  him  in  a 
weary  sigh  and  an  impatient  movement  of  the  eye- 
brows, which  did  not  tally  with  his  assumption  of 
cheerful  indifference  and  hospitality. 

I  use  the  word  hospitality  advisedly,  for  his  ef- 
fort always  seemed  to  be  to  treat  me  as  a  guest 
whom  he  must  entertain,  and  distract  from  ob- 
serving his  ailments,  rather  than  as  a  physician 
whose  business  it  was  to  discover  and  remedy  them. 


218  My  Patient's  Story. 

He  had  declined  to  be  moved  ;  said  he  was  a 
stranger;  had  no  preferences  as  to  hotels;  felt  sure 
this  one  was  as  comfortable  as  any;  thanked  me 
over  and  over  for  having  taken  him  there,  and 
changed  the  subject.  He  would  talk  as  long  as  I 
would  allow  him  on  any  subject,  airily,  brightly, 
readily.  On  any  subject,  that  is,  except  himself; 
yet  from  his  conversation  I  had  gathered  that  he 
had  travelled  a  great  deal;  was  a  man  of  wealth  and 
culture,  whether  French,  Italian  or  Russian,  I  could 
not  decide.  He  spoke  all  of  these  languages,  and 
words  from  each  fitted  easily  into  place  when  for  a 
better  English  one,  he  hesitated  or  was  at  a  loss. 

Indeed,  he  seemed  to  have  seen  much  of  every 
country  and  to  have  observed  impartially — without 
national  prejudice.  He  knew  men  well,  too  well  to 
praise  recklessly  ;  and  he  sometimes  gave  me  the 
impression,  I  can  hardly  say  how,  that  blame  was  a 
word  whose  meaning  he  did  not  know. 

He  spoke  of  having  seen  deeds  of  the  most  ap- 
palling nature  in  Russia,  and  talked  of  their  perpe- 
trators sometimes,  as  good  and  brave  men.  He 
never  appeared  to  measure  men  by  their  excep- 
tional acts. 

Occasionally  I  contested  these  points  with  him, 
and  I  am  not  sure  but  that  it  may  have  been  the 
interest  I  took  in  his  conversation  that  held  me  as 
his  physician;  for  as  I  said,  I  was  well  aware  that 
he  did  not  improve  as  he  should  have  done  after 
the  first  few  days. 

But  I  liked  to  hear  him  talk.     He  was  a  revela- 


My  Patient's  Story.  219 

tion  to  me.  I  greatly  enjoyed  his  breath  and  char- 
ity— if  I  may  so  express  the  mental  attitude  which 
recognized  neither  the  possession  of,  nor  the  need 
for,  either  quality  in  his  judgments  of  his  fellow- 
men. 

He  had  evidently  not  been  able  to  pass  through 
life  under  the  impression  that  character,  like  cloth, 
is  cut  to  fit  a  certain  outline,  and  that  after  the 
basting-threads  are  once  in,  no  farther  variation 
need  be  looked  for.  Indeed,  I  question  if  he 
would  have  been  able  to  comprehend  the  mental 
condition  of  those  grown-up  "  educated  "  children 
who  are  never  able  to  outgrow  the  comfortable  be- 
lief that  words  and  acts  have  a  definite,  inflexible, 
par-value — that  an  unabridged  dictionary,  so  to 
speak,  is  an  infallible  appeal;  who,  in  short,  ex- 
pect their  villains  to  be  consistently  and  invariably 
villainous,  in  the  regulation  orthodox  fashion. 

Individual  shades  of  meaning,  whether  of  lan- 
guage or  of  character,  do  not  enter  into  their  sim- 
ple philosophy.  Mankind  suffers,  in  their  penny- 
weight scales,  a  shrinkage  that  is  none  the  less  real 
because  they  never  suspect  that  the  dwarfage  may 
be  due  to  themselves— to  their  system  of  weights  and 
measures.  All  variations  from  their  standard  indi- 
cate an  unvarying  tendency  to  mendacity.  He 
whom  they  once  detect  in  a  quibble,  or  in  an  at- 
tempt to  acquire  the  large  end  of  a  bargain,  never 
recovers  (what  is  perhaps  only  his  rightful  heritage, 
in  spite  of  an  occasional  lapse)  the  respect  and 
confidence   of  these  primer  students  who  are  in- 


220  My  Patient's  Story. 

flexible  judges  of  all  mental  and  moral  manifesta- 
tions. 

I  repeat  that  this  comfortable  and  regular  phil- 
osophy was  foreign  to  my  patient's  mental  habits, 
and  I  began  to  consider,  the  more  I  talked  with 
him,  that  it  did  not  agree  with  my  own  personal 
observations.  I  reflected  that  I  was  not  very 
greatly  surprised,  nor  did  I  lose  faith  in  a  man 
necessarily,  when  I  discovered  him  in  a  single  mean 
or  questionable  action. 

Why,  then,  should  I  be  surprised  to  find  those  of 
whom  I  had  known  only  ill-engaged  in  deeds  of 
the  most  unselfish  nature  ?  Deeds  of  heroism  and 
generosity  such  as  he  often  recounted  as  a  part  of 
the  life  of  some  of  these  same  terrible  Russian  of- 
ficials. There  seems,  however,  to  be  that  in  us 
which  finds  it  far  easier  to  reconcile  a  single  mean 
or  immoral  action  with  an  otherwise  upright  life, 
than  to  believe  it  likely,  or  even  possible,  for  a 
depraved  nature  to  perform,  upon  occasion,  deeds 
of  exalted  or  unusual  purity.  Yet  so  common  is 
the  latter,  that  its  failure  of  recognition  by  human- 
ity in  general  can  be  due  it  seems  to  me,  only  to  a 
wrong  teaching  or  to  a  stupidity  beyond  even  nor- 
mal bounds. 

For,  after  all,  the  bad  man  who  is  all  bad,  is 
really  a  less  frequent  product  than  that  much 
talked  of,  but  rare  creature,  a  perfect  woman. 
Perhaps  one  could  count  the  specimens  of  either 
of  these  to  be  met  with  in  a  life  time,  on  the  fingers 
of  one  hand. 


My  Patient's  Story.  221 

But  to  return  to  my  patient  and  his  story. 

It  was  of  these  things  that  he  and  I  had  often 
talked,  and  I  had  come  to  greatly  respect  the  self- 
poise  and  acute  observation,  as  well  as  the  broad 
human  sympathy  of  this  reserved  and  evidently 
sad-hearted  man.  Sad-hearted  I  knew,  in  spite  of 
his  keen  sense  of  humor,  and  his  firm  grasp  of  phil- 
osophy. 

I  gave  Dr.  Hamilton  a  brief  outline  of  all  this, 
as  well  as  of  the  physical  condition  of  the  man 
whom  he  was  to  see  ;  for  I  believe  it  to  be  quite 
as  important  for  a  physician  to  understand  -and  di- 
agnose the  mental  as  the  physical  conditions  of 
those  who  come  under  his  care  before  he  can  pre- 
scribe intelligently  for  other  than  very  trifling  ail- 
ments. 

You  can  imagine  my  surprise  when  I  tell  you  that 
the  moment  Dr.  Hamilton  stepped  into  the  room, 
and  I  mentioned  his  name,  my  patient,  this  self- 
poised  man  of  the  world,  whose  nerves  had  often 
seemed  to  me  to  be  of  tempered  steel,  looked  up 
suddenly  as  you  have  seen  a  timid  child  do  when 
it  is  sharply  reproved,  and  fainted  dead  away. 

II. 

I  confess  that  I  expected  a  scene. 

I  glanced  at  the  doctor,  but  he  showed  no  sign 
of  ever  having  seen  my  patient  before,  and  went  to 
work  with  me  in  the  most  methodical  and  indiffer- 
ent way  possible  to  revive  him. 


222  My  Patient's  Story. 

'  You  did  not  mention  that  this  was  one  of  his 
symptoms— a  peculiarity  of  his.  Has  he  been  sub- 
ject to  this  sort  of  thing?  Did  he  say  he  was  sub- 
ject to  it  before  he  hurt  his  head,  or  has  it  devel- 
oped since  ? "  the  doctor  inquired  quietly  as  we 
worked. 

I  bit  my  lip.  His  tone  was  so  exasperatingly 
cool,  while,  knowing  my  patient  as  I  did,  his 
startled  manner  and  sudden  fainting  had  impressed 
me  deeply. 

"  It  is  the  first  time,"  I  said,  "  since  he  was  hurt 
— that  is,  since  he  recovered  consciousness  after 
the  blow — that  he  has  exhibited  the  slighest  tend- 
ency to  anything  of  the  kind." 

I  hesitated,  then  I  said:  "Doctor,  if  you  know 
him;  if  this  is  the  result  of  seeing  you  suddenly 
(for  he  did  not  know  who  was  to  come)  don't  you 
think — would  it  be  well  ? — Do  you  think  it  best  for 
you  to  be  where  he  will  see  you  when  he  begins  to 
revive  ? " 

The  doctor  stared  at  me,  then  at  my  patient. 
"  I  don't  know  him — never  saw  him  before  in  my 
life  so  far  as  I  know.  What  did  you  say  his  name 
is  ?  Mum  —  oh,  yes,  Lathro  —  first  and  only 
time  I  ever  heard  it.  Oh,  no,  I  suppose  his  nerves 
are  weak.  The  excitement  of  seeing  me — the  idea 
of — a — er — consultation."  I  smiled,  involuntarily. 
'You  don't  know  the  man,  doctor,"  said  I.  "  He 
is  bomb  proof  as  to  nerves  in  that  sense  of  the 
word.  He — a — There  must  be  some  other  reason. 
He  must  have  mistaken  you  for  some  one  else.     I 


My  Patient's  Story.  223 

am  sorry  to  trouble  you,  doctor,  but  would  you 
kindly  step  into  the  other  room  ?  He  will  open  his 
eyes  now,  you  see." 

When,  a  moment  later,  my  patient  regained  con- 
sciousuess,  he  glanced  about  him  furtively,  like  a 
hunted  man.     He  did  not  look  like  himself. 

He  examined  my  face  closely  —  suspiciously, 
I  thought — for  a  moment.  Then  I  laughed  lightly, 
and  said:  "Well,  old  fellow,  you've  been  trying 
your  hand  at  a  faint.  That's  a  pretty  way  to  treat 
a  friend.  I  come  in  to  see  you;  you  step  out  to 
nobody  knows  where — to  no  man's  land — and  give 
me  no  end  of  trouble  rowing  you  back  to  our 
shore.  What  did  you  eat  for  dinner  that  served 
you  that  kind  of  a  trick  ?" 

He  looked  all  about  the  room  again,  examined 
my  face,  and  then  smiled,  for  the  first  time  since  I 
had  known  him,  nervously,  and  said: 

"  I  think  my  digestion  must  be  pretty  badly  out 
of  order.  I'll  declare  I  saw  double  when  you  came 
in.  I  thought  there  were  two  of  you  ;  and  the 
other  one — wasn't  you." 

I  laughed  ;  "  That  is  good.  Two  of  me,  but  the 
other  one  wasn't  me.  Well,  thank  heaven  there  is 
only  one  of  me  up  to  date." 

He  smiled,  but  seemed  disturbed  still.  I  decided 
to  ask  him  a  direct  question  : 

"  Well  now,  just  suppose  there  had  been  two  of 
me — is  that  an  excuse  for  you  to  faint  ?  Does  as- 
sociating with  one  of  me  try  you  to  that  extent  that 
two  of  me  would  prostrate  you  ?" 


224  My  Patient's  Story. 

He  did  not  take  me  up  with  his  old  manner.  He 
was  listless  and  absent.  I  said  that  I  would  go 
down  to  the  office  and  order  some  wine  and  return 
at  once.  I  slipped  into  the  other  room,  and  with 
my  finger  on  my  lips  motioned  to  Dr.  Hamilton  to 
pass  out  quietly  before  me. 

I  followed  him.  "  There  is  something  wrong, 
Doctor,"  I  said  :  "  I  am  sorry,  but  I  shall  have  to 
ask  you  to  go  without  seeing  him  again.  I  can't 
tell  you  why  yet,  but  I'll  try  to  find  out  and  let  you 
know.  Order  some  champagne  sent  up  to  me, 
please,  as  you  go  out,  and  I  will  see  you  as  soon  as 
I  can." 

The  moment  I  re-entered  the  room,  my  patient, 
whose  restless  eyes  met  mine  as  I  opened  the  door, 
said  :  "  I  thought  you  were  talking  to  some  one." 

"  I  was,"  said  I  carelessly  ;  a  bell-boy.  I  ordered 
wine.  It  will  be  up  soon."  Then  I  changed  the 
subject  ;  but  he  was  nervous  and  unlike  himself 
and  none  of  the  old  topics  interested  him. 

When  the  door  opened  for  the  boy  with  the  wine 
an  expression  of  actual  terror  passed  over  my  pa- 
tient's face.  When  I  left  him  a  half  hour  later  I 
was  puzzled  and  anxious. 

III. 

The  moment  I  entered  his  room  on  the  following 
day  he  said  :  "  I  thought  you  had  planned  to  have 
another  doctor  come  and  look  me  over,  yesterday." 
He  was  watching  me  closely  as  he  spoke  :  "  Did 
I  hear  you  mention  his  name  ?" 


My  Patient's  Story.  22$ 

Ah,  thought  I,  here  is  a  mystery  in  spite  of  Dr. 
Hamilton's  denial.     I  will  try  him. 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  I  had  decided  to  ask  the  best 
Homeopathic  doctor  I  know,  a  skilful  man,  espe- 
cially successful  in  diagnosing  cases,  to  overhaul  you 
and  see  if  he  agrees  with  me  that  you  ought  to  be 
on  your  feet  this  blessed  minute,  if  my  diagnosis  of 
your  case  is  entirely  right.  I  don't  see  why  you  are 
still  so  weak.  He  may  find  the  spring  that  I  have 
missed.     Why  ?" 

"  Did  you — I  am  not  acquainted  with  the  doctors 
here, — I  think  you  said  his  name  is — ?" 

"  I  have  not  mentioned  his  name  to  you,"  I 
said,  "  but  the  one  I  had  in  mind  is  Dr.  Hamilton 
of Madison  Avenue." 

There  was  no  doubt  about  it,  the  color  rose 
slowly  to  his  face,  and  he  was  struggling  for  self-con- 
trol. At  length  he  said  :  "  No,  I  do  not  wish  to 
see  another  doctor.  I  am  perfectly  satisfied  with 
you.  I  am — I  say — no,  positively  do  not  ask  him; 
that  is,  do  not  ask  anyone  to  come  unless  I  know 
and  definitely  agree  to  it.  And  I  certainly  shall 
want  to  know  who  he  is  first." 

All  this  was  wholly  foreign  to  the  man,  to  his 
nature  and  habit. 

"  Tell  me,"  I  said,  "  what  you  have  against  Dr. 
Hamilton,  for  I  cannot  fail  to  see  that  there  is 
something  behind  all  this." 

He  did  not  reply  for  some  time  ;  then  he  said 
wearily,  but  with  great  depth  of  feeling. 


226  My  Patients  Story. 

''  I   suppose  I   may  as  well  tell  you.     I  cannot 
forgive  him  for  an  injury  I  did  him  long  ago." 

I  did  not  say  anything  nor  did  I  look  at  him. 
Presently  he  went  on  hoarsely  ;  "  If  I  had  only  in- 
jured him,  perhaps  I  could  get  over  it  but  I  took 
a  mean  advantage  of — I  did  it  through  a  woman 
who  liked  him — and  whom  he — loved  and  trusted." 
There  was  another  long  silence;  then  I  said; 
'  You  were  right  to  tell  me,  Lathro.  You  need 
not  fear  that  I  will  betray  you  to  him,  and  he  does 
not  know  you.  He  did  not  recognize  you  either 
before  or  after  you  fainted.  Of  course  I  knew 
there  was  something  wrong.  He  will  not  come 
again." 

He  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  a  wave  of  red  surged 
into  his  face.  "  I  knew  it!  I  knew  I  had  seen  him! 
I  was  sure  it  was  not  a  delusion,"  he  said.  "  He 
was  here.  No,  he  would  not  know  me.  He  never 
saw  me.  I  did  not  injure  him  like  a  man,  I  struck 
from  behind  a  woman.  A  woman  who  cared  for 
his  respect,  and  I  let  him  blame  her.  I  suppose  I 
could  get  over  it  if  it  were  not  for  that.  I  came 
back  here  partly  to  let  him  know,  if  I  could  some 
way,  that  she  was  not  to  blame  "—there  was  an- 
other long  silence — "  and  partly  to  get  rid  of 
myself.  Russia  did  not  do  it, — Turkey, — France — 
none  of  them.  I  thought  perhaps  he  would — I 
had  some  sort  of  a  wild  idea  that  he  might  settle 
with  me  some  way.  I  have  carried  that  forged 
cheque  in  my  brain,  until — " 

I  started  visibly.     I  had  had  no  idea  that  it  was 


My  Patient's  Story.  227 

so  bad  as  this.  I  changed  my  position  to  hide  or 
cover  the  involuntary  movement  I  had  made,  but 
he  had  seen  it  and  the  color  died  out  of  his  face. 
He  forced  himself  to  begin  again.  "  I  carried  that 
forged  check,"  he  was  articulating  now  with  horri- 
ble distinctness,  "  wherever  I  went.  She  never 
knew  anything  about  it.  She  knew  I  was — she 
thought,  or  feared,  that  I  might  be  somewhat — 
what  you  Americans  call  crooked;  but  she  did  not 
know  the  truth,  not  until  the  very  last.  She  knew 
that  I  had  been  unreliable  in  some  ways  long  ago; 
but  she  did  not  dream  of  the  worst.  At  last, — 
sometimes  I  think  I  was  a  fool  to  have  done  it, — 
but  I  told  her.  I  told  her  the  whole  truth,  and — 
she  left  me.  She  had  borne  everything  till  then. 
I  think  she  came  here.  Before  long  I  followed. 
She  told  me  not  to,  and  I  said  I  would  not ;  but 
of  course  I  did.     I  could  not  help  it. 

I  knew  then,  and  I  know  now,  that  I  am  putting 
myself  into  the  clutches  of  the  law  ;  but  I  do  not 
care  —  not  now —  since  I  cannot  find  Florence 
Campbell." 

He  pronounced  the  name  as  if  it  were  a  treasure 
wrung  from  him  by  force.  "  It  is  the  only  really 
criminal  thing  I  ever  did.  I  do  not  know  why  I 
did  it.  They  say  that  crime — a  taste  for  it,  de- 
velops slowly,  by  degrees.  Maybe  so  ;  but  not 
with  me,  not  with  me. 

I  had  money  enough  ;  but — oh,  my  God  !  how  I 
hated  him.  I  saw  that  he  was  growing  to  love 
her  without    knowing    it.     I    often    heard    them 


228  My  Patient's  Story. 

talking  together.  They  did  not  know  it,  and  if 
they  had  it  could  not  have  been  more  innocent  ;  but 
I  was  madly  jealous,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life. 

I  determined  to  make  him  think  ill  of  her,  and 
yet  I  said  just  now  that  forgery  was  my  only  crime. 
That  was  worse,  by  far,  but  I  believe  it  is  not  a 
crime  in  law.  " 

He  smiled  scornfully.  "  I  have  outgrown  all 
that  now.  The  storm  has  left  me  the  wreck  you 
see  ;  but  I  thought  it  all  out  last  night,  and  deter- 
mined to  tell  you.  You  are  to  tell — him — for  her 
sake,"  he  said  between  his  set  teeth. 

"  He  may  see  her  yet  some  day.  She  will  never 
return  to  me — God  bless  her  !     God  help  us  both  !" 

"  No,  she  will  never  return  to  you  nor  to  anyone 
else,"  I  said,  as  gently  as  I  could. 

He  sprang  up  with  the  energy  of  a  maniac.  "  How 
do  you  know?   What  do  you  know  ?"  he  demanded. 

"  I  only  know  that  she  is  dead,  my  friend,"  I 
said,  placing  my  hand  on  his  arm,  "  and  that  Dr. 
Hamilton  does  not  wish  to  punish  you.  I  heard 
it  all;  the  story  of  the  forgery  of  his  name,  and 
that  a  Florence  Campbell  was  in  some  way  con- 
nected with  it.  I  heard  it  from  him  long,  long 
ago;  but  he  does  not  know  that  you  are  Tom 
Campbell.     You  are  safe." 

"  Does  not  wish  to  punish  me!  I  am  safe!  Great 
God,  no  one  could  punish  me.  I  do  that.  Safe  ! 
Oh,  the  irony  of  language!" 

There  was  a  long  pause.  He  had  gone  to  the 
window  and  was    staring  out   into  the  darkness. 


My  Patient's  Story.  229 

Presently  the  sound  of  convulsive  sobbing  filled 
the  room;  I  thought  best  to  remain  near  the  door 
and  make  no  effort  to  check  his  grief  with  words. 

At  last  the  storm  spent  itself.  He  came  slowly 
into  the  middle  of  the  room  and  stood  facing  me. 
At  length  he  said: 

"  One  of  the  greatest  punishments  is  gone,  thank 
God.  Florence  Campbell  is  dead,  you  say.  Do 
you  know  what  it  is,  Doctor,  to  wish  that  one  you 
loved  was  dead  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes."  I  said  ;  but  it  is  best  for  you  not  to 
talk  any  more — nor  think,  just  now — not  of  that — 
not  of  that." 

He  broke  in  impatiently — "  Don't  you  know  me 
well  enough  yet  to  know  that  that  sort  of  thing — 
that  sort  of  professional  humbug  is  useless?  Must 
not  talk  more  of  that — nor  think  of  it,  indeed  ! 
What  else  do  you  suppose  I  ever  think  of?  The 
good  men  who  are  bad  and  the  bad  ones  who  are 
good — the  puppets  of  our  recent  conversations  ? 
Suppose  we  boil  it  down  a  little.  Am  I  a  bad  man  ? 
That  is  a  question  that  puzzles  me.  Am  I  a  good 
one  ?  At  least  I  can  answer///^ — and  yet  I  never 
did  but  one  criminal  deed  in  my  whole  life,  and  I 
have  done  a  great  many  so-called  good  ones  to  set 
over  against  it." 

"Then  you  can  answer  neither  question  with  a 
single  word,"  I  said.  He  took  my  hand  and 
pressed  it  with  the  frenzy  of  a  new  hope. 

"  At  least  one  man's  philosophy  is  not  all  words," 


230  My  Patient's  Story. 

he  said.  "  You  act  upon  your  theories.  You  are 
the  only  one  I  ever  knew  who  did." 

"  Perhaps  I  am  the  only  one  you  ever  gave  the 
chance,"  I  replied,  still  holding  his  hand. 

We  stood  thus  silent  for  a  moment,  then  he  said 
with  an  inexpressible  accent  of  satire  :  "  Would 
you  advise  me  to  try  it,  doctor,  with  anyone  else?" 

I  deliberated  some  time  before  I  replied.  Then 
I  said  :  "  No,  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  fear  it  would 
not  be  safe.  There  is  still  so  much  tiger  in  the 
human  race.  No,  do  not  tell  your  story  again  to 
any  one  ;  it  can  do  no  good.  Most  certainly  I 
would  advise  you  not  to  try  it  ever  again." 

As  I  left  the  room  he  said  :  "  True,  true.  It  can 
do  no  good,  none  whatever." 

The   next  day  he  left.     I  never  saw  him  again. 

Two  years  later  I  received  a  kind  letter  from 
him  in  which  he  greatly  over-estimated  all  I  had 
done  for  him.  The  letter  came  from  St.  Peters- 
burg and  was  signed  "  T.  Lathro  Campbell,  Col. 
Imperial  Guard. 

I  fancied,  in  spite  of  his  letter,  that  he  would 
rather  sever  all  connection  with  this  country,  and 
feel  that  he  had  no  ties  nor  past  ;  so  I  never  an- 
swered his  letter. 

Sometimes  I  wonder  if  he  misunderstood  my 
silence,  and  accepted  it  as  a  token  of  unfriendli- 
ness— and  yet — well,  I  have  never  been  able  to 
decide  just  what  would  be  least  painful  to  him  ;  so 
I  let  it  drift  into  years  of  silence,  and  perhaps, 
after  all,  these  very  good  intentions  of  mine  may 


My  Patient's  Story.  231 

be  only  cobble-stones  added  to  the  paving  of  the 
streets  of  a  certain  dread,  but  very  populous  city 
which  is,  in  these  days  of  agnosticism  quite  a  mat- 
ter of  jest  in  polite  society. 

Who  shall  say  ?     Which  would  he  prefer,  friendly 
communication  or  silence  and  forgetfulness  ? 


JTHE    END. 


"PUSHED   BY   UNSEEN   HANDS." 

By   HELEN    H.   GARDENER. 

i»ecej»»     :ivotio:e:js. 

philadelphia  inquirer. 

These  tales  illustrate  strange  influences  that  shape  human  action  and 
seem  to  lie  outside  of  the  actor.  .  .  .  Dr.  Spitzka,  the  brain  special- 
ist, writes  that  two  of  the  stories  deal  with  curious  things  usually  ob- 
served only  by  specialists  in  the  field  of  heredity. 

DETROIT  TRIBUNE. 

Setting  aside  the  scientific  suggestion,  the  imaginative  faculty  of 
Helen  Gardener  is  conspicuous  in  the  conception  of  plot  and  the  de- 
velopment of  character. 

INDIANAPOLIS  JOURNAL. 

The  stories  are  vital  with  earnest  thought.  .  .  .  This  author 
gives  indication  of  having  come  to  stay. 

CHARLESTON  (S.  C.)  NEWS. 
All  of  the  stories  are  striking  and   thoughtful.     Some  of  them   are 
very  dramatic  and  their  literary  quality  is  marked  enough  to   enable 
even  a  careless  reader  to  enjoy  them. 

BOSTON  GLOBE. 

An  artist  reproduces  nature  in  such  a  way  that  we  recognize  it  as  real 
or  ideal.  The  ideal  can  be  as  real  to  us  as  any  scene  beheld  with  our 
open  eyes.  .  .  .  "Pushed  by  Unseen  Hands"  is  a  collection  of 
short  stories  so  realistic  as  to  leave  no  doubt  of  their  actuality. 

NEW  ORLEANS  PICAYUNE. 
A  number  of  good  short  stories,  most  of  which  turn  on  some  of  the 
mysterious  facts  that  lie  in  that  borderland  between  the  seen  and  the  un- 
seen, so  fascinating  to  the  imagination  and  so  baffling  to  inquiry.  Miss 
Gardener's  touch  is  very  exquisite  and  she  draws  her  mental  pictures 
with  the  hand  of  a  master,  showing  in  a  few  rapid  lines  more  sharp  and 
attractive  characteristics  than  many  author's  can  in  labored  pages. 

OMAHA  BEE. 

As  a  writer  of  short  stories  Helen  Gardener  has  achieved  an  enviable 
reputation,  and  her  new  book  gives  indication  that  she  does  not  intend 
to  relinquish  this  charming  method  of  giving  to  her  readers  pleasure 
with  profit,  whatever  else  she  may  do. 

CHICAGO  TIMES. 
Miss  Gardener  has  been  subjected  to  much  censure  for  her  boldness 
and  frankness  with  which  she  expresses  her  views  on  some  subjects  not 
usually  discussed  in  public.  The  Orthodox  have  ever  been  prone  to  con- 
found the  surgical  and  the  scandalous.  .  .  .  From  a  literary  point 
of  view  the  stories  are  vivid  and  artistic,  while  as  to  their  motives  and 
spirit  they  are  farther  removed  from  the  prurient  and  scandalous  than 
most  of  those  who  censure  her.  She  is  a  woman  of  remarkable  gifts 
and  of  superb  courage. 

Paper,  50  Cents;    Cloth,  $1.00. 

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Helen  H. 
Gardener 


Helen  H. 
Gardener 


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IS  THIS  YOUR  SON,  J1Y  LORD? 

It  is  the  opinion  of  some  of  the  best  contemporary 
critics  that  this  is  the  most  powerful  American  novel 
written  in  this  generation.  It  is  the  fearless  protest  of  a 
high  spiritual  nature  against  the  hideous  brutality  of  an 
unchristian  social  code.  It  is  a  terrible  expose  of  conven- 
tional immorality  and  hypocrisy.  Every  high-minded 
woman  who  desires  the  true  progression  of  her  sex  will 
want  to  touch  the  inspiriting  power  of  this  book. 

No  braver  voice  was  ever  raised,  no  clearer  note  was  ever 
struck,  for  woman's  honor  and  childhood's  purity.  —  The  Van- 
guard, Chicago. 

A  novel  of  power,  and  one  which  will  stir  up  a  breeze  unless 
certain  hypocritical  classes  are  wiser  than  they  usually  are.  — 
Chicago  Times. 

It  comes  very  close  to  any  college  man  who  has  kept  his  eyes 
open.  When  we  finish  we  may  say,  not,  "  Is  This  Your  Son, 
My  Lord?"  but  "Is  it  I?" — Nassau  Literary  Magazine, 
Princeton. 

Is  a  remarkable  book  —  a  daring  arraignment  of  "society" 
and  the  public  conscience  of  what  we  are  wont  to  call  an 
advanced  and  refined  Christian  civilization,  for  the  widely  dif- 
ferent standards  by  which  the  "  powers  that  be  "  measure  the 
morality,  virtue  and  respectability  of  men  and  women.  They 
are  alike  human  beings,  and  members  of  the  same  human  fam- 
ily ;  through  what  alchemy,  then,  does  vice  in  one  lose  its 
viciousness  in  the  other  ?  —  Detroit  Sunday  Tribune. 


Price,  cloth,  $1.00;  paper,  50  cents. 
PRAY  YOU,  SIR,  WHOSE  DAUGHTER? 

"The  civil  and  canon  law,"  writes  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Cady 
Stanton,  "state  and  church  alike,  make  the  mothers  of  the 
race  a  helpless,  ostracized  class,  pariahs  of  a  corrupt  civilization. 
In  Helen  Gardener's  stories  I  see  the  promise  of  such  a  work  of 
fiction  that  shall  paint  the  awful  facts  of  woman's  position  in 
living  colors  that  all  must  see  and  feel.  Those  who  know  the 
sad  facts  of  woman's  life,  so  carefully  veiled  from  society  at 
large,  will  not  consider  the  pictures  in  this  story  overdrawn. 
Some  critics  say  that  everyone  knows  and  condemns  these 
facts  in  our  social  life,  and  that  we  do  not  need  fiction  to  inten- 
sify the  public  disgnst.  But  to  keep  our  sons  and  daughters 
innocent,  we  must  warn  them  of  the  dangers  that  beset 
them.  Ignorance  under  no  circumstances  ensures  safety. 
Honor  protected  by  knowledge  is  safer  than  innocence  pro- 
tected by  ignorance." 
For  sale  by  all  newsdealers,  or  sent  postpaid  by 

Arena  Publishing  Co.,  Boston,  Mass. 


"A  THOUGHTLESS   YES." 

by  helen  h.  gardener. 
Some  Press  Comments. 

Marked  by  a  quaint  philosophy,  shrewd,  sometimes  pungent  reflec- 
tion, each  one  possesses-  enough  purely  literary  merit  to  make  its  way 
and  hold  its  own.  "  The  Lady  of  the  Club  "  is  indeed  a  terrible  study 
of  social  abuses  and  problems,  and  most  of  the  others  suggest  more  in 
the  same  direction. —  N.  Y.  Trubine. 

All  the  stories  are  distinguished  by  a  remarkable  strength,  both  of 
thought  and  language. —  Pittsburg  Bulletin. 

Will  do  considerable  to  stir  up  thought  and  breed  a  "  divine  discon- 
tent"  with  vested  wrong  and  intrenched  injustice.  The  stories  are 
written  in  a  bright,  vivacious  style. —  Boston  Transcript. 

She  appreciates  humor  and  makes  others  appreciate  it.  All  of  the 
stories,  whether  humorous  or  pathetic,  have  a  touch  of  realism,  and  are 
written  clearly  and  forcibly. —  Boston  Herald. 

Bright  and  light,  gloomy  and  strange,  cleverly  imagined,  fairly  amus. 
ing,  tragic  and  interesting,  by  turns. —  N.  Y.  Independent. 

Thoughtfully  conceived  and  beautifully  written. —  Chicago  Times. 

Each  story  is  a  literary  gem. —  San  Francisco  Call. 

Full  of  wit  and  epigram  ;  very  enjoyable  and  profitable  reading.  Just 
long  enough  to  induce  the  wish  that  they  were  a  little  longer  —  an  ex- 
cellent feature  in  a  story. —  Portland  (Me.)   Transcript. 

Helen  Gardener  puts  moral  earnestness  and  enthusiasm  for  humanity 
into  her  stories.  Even  her  pessimism  is  better  than  the  nerveless  super- 
ficiality of  her  rivals. —  Unity  (Chicago.) 

Illustrate  the  indubitable  fact  that  the  times  are  out  of  joint. — 
Charleston  (S.  C.)  Neivs. 

Exceptionally  excellent.  Convey  a  moral  lesson  in  a  manner  always 
vivid,  invariably  forcible,  sometimes  startling. —  Arena. 

The  author  is  not  morbid ;  she  is  honestly  thoughtful.  The  mystery 
and  consequences  of  heredity  is  the  motive  of  some  of  the  strongest. — 
N.  Y.  Herald. 

With  a  terseness  and  originality  positively  refreshing.  On  subjects 
to  suit  the  thoughtful,  sad,  or  gay. —  Mihvaukee  Journal. 

Have  made  their  mark  as  new,  original,  and  strong.  She  could  not 
write  ungracefully  if  she  tried,  and  this  book  is  like  a  varied  string  of 
pearls,  opals,  and  diamonds. —  N.  Y.  Truth. 

A  work  of  fiction  by  one  of  the  few  feminine  philosophers  who  have 
boldly  faced  the  problems  of  life. —  Bel/ord's  Magazine. 

Bright,   thoughtful,  and  taking.     Written  by  a   woman  with  brains, 
who  dares  to  think  for  herself. —  The  Writer  (Boston.) 
Paper,  50  Cents;    Cloth,  $1.00. 

ARENA  PUBLISHING  CO.,  Copley  Square,  Boston,  Hass. 


From  the  press  of  the  Arena  Publishing  Company. 


"  H  :ie  Hit  of  the  year/ 


Helen  H. 
Gardener 


Chicago  Times 


The  Literary  Hit 
of  the  Season 


Rockford  (111.) 
Republican 


Price,  paper,  50  cents  ;  cloth,  $1.25. 


AN   UNOFFICIAL   PATRIOT. 

Have  you  read  Helen  H.  Gardener's  new  war  story,  "An 

Unofficial   Patriot"?     No?     Then  read   what  competent 

critics  say  of  this  remarkable  historical  story  of  ths  Civil 

War. 

"  Helen  H.  Gardener  has  made  for  herself  within  a  very  few- 
years  an  enviable  fame  for  the  strength  and  sincerity  of  her 
writing  on  some  of  the  most  important  phases  of  modern  social 
questions.  Her  most  recent  novel,  now  published  under  the  title 
of '  An  Unofficial  Patriot,'  is  no  less  deserving  of  praise.  As  an 
artistic  piece  of  character  study  this  book  is  possessed  of  supe- 
rior qualities.  There  is  nothing  in  it  to  offend  the  traditions  of 
an  honest  man,  north  or  south.  It  is  written  with  an  evident 
knowledge  of  the  circumstances  and  surroundings  such  as  might 
have  made  the  story  a  very  fact,  and,  more  than  all,  it  is  written 
with  an  assured  sympathy  for  humanity  and  a  recognition  of 
right  and  wrong  wherever  found.  As  to  the  literary  merit  of 
the  book  and  its  strength  as  a  character  study,  as  has  been  said 
heretofore,  it  is  a  superior  work.  The  study  of  Griffith  Daven- 
port, the  clergyman,  and  of  his  true  friend,  '  Lengthy '  Patterson, 
is  one  to  win  favor  from  every  reader.  There  are  dramatic 
scenes  in  their  association  that  thrill  and  touch  the  heart. 
Davenport's  two  visits  to  President  Lincoln  are  other  scenes 
worthy  of  note  for  the  same  quality,  and  they  show  an  apprecia- 
tion of  the  feeling  and  motive  of  the  president  more  than  histori- 
cal in  its  sympathy.  Mrs.  Gardener  may  well  be  proud  of  her 
success  in  the  field  of  fiction." 

"  Helen  Gardener's  new  novel,  '  An  Unofficial  Patriot,'  which 
is  just  out,  will  probably  be  the  most  popular  and  salable  novel 
since  '  Robert  Elsmere.'  It  is  by  far  the  most  finished  and 
ambitious  book  yet  produced  by  the  gifted  author  and  well  de- 
serves a  permanent  place  in  literature. 

"  The  plot  of  the  story  itself  guarantees  the  present  sale.  It 
is  '  something  new  under  the  sun  '  and  strikes  new  sensations, 
new  situations,  new  conditions.  To  be  sure  it  is  a  war  story,  and 
war  stories  are  old  and  hackneyed.  But  there  has  been  no  such 
war  story  as  this  written.  It  gives  a  situation  new  in  fiction  and 
tells  the  story  of  the  war  from  a  standpoint  which  gives  the  book 
priceless  value  as  a  sociological  study  and  as  supplemental 
history. 

"  The  plot  is  very  strong  and  is  all  the  more  so  when  the 
reader  learns  that  it  is  true.  The  story  is  an  absolutely  true  one 
and  is  almost  entirely  a  piece  of  history  written  in  form  of  fic- 
tion, with  names  and  minor  incidents  altered." 

For  sale  by  all  nevjsdealers,  or  sent  postpaid  by 

Arena  Publishing  Co.,  Boston,  Mass. 


